MARTIN    FABER; 


TIN: 


STORY  0|-  A  CU1MLWAL. 


Smoq  »'•'  n.  at  »n  uncrrtain  hour, 

1  I::U  ncrony  n  turns, 
And'.,V'.1  n>>  fh»»t{y  tale  i«  U)IH, 

•••»  IK-:.,  «i»hin  me,  burns.' 


'Ittncifnt  Marine,'. 


N  K  W  .  V  O  R  K  : 

PUBLISHED  "Y  J.  fe  j.  HARPER, 
wo.  B2, 

"v 


M  nc<c  xxxiii. 


[Knurcd  accenting  to  Act  of  C"onpiv«,:  bjr  J.  &  J.  Harp*  r, 
in  the  yiar  1S33,  ii»  the  Ck-rk'i  OtVu-c  «•!  the  DiitrrH  Court  of 
tbe  United  Stair*  for  the  Soullu-rn  Pimict  of  Xiw-York.] 


rui.sih.ii,  N.  1U\ 


MY    DAUGHTER— 

T  O     O  N  i:,     \V  HO,     AS     YE  T, 

c  v  \  r  x  n  r  u  s  T  A  \  i>  1. 1  i  T  L  i:  n  r  T  HIS  L  o  v  E, 

TI1KSE  PAGES  ARE  FONDLY  DEDICATED, 

v    i  '   1 1      ALL     TUK     AFFKCTIOTTS    OF 

A    F  A  T  II  n  R  . 


OSS 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


The  work  which  follows  is  submitted  with  great 
deference  and  some  doubt  to  the  reader.  It  is  an 
expei  -incut;  ami  the  style  and  spirit  arc,  it  is  be 
lieved,  something  out  of  the  beaten  track.  The 
events  are  of  real  occurrence,  and,  to  the  judgment 
of  the  author,  the  peculiarities  of  character  which 
he  has  hern  drawn — if  they  may  be  considered  such, 
which  are  somewhat  too  common  to  human  socie 
ty — arc  genuine  and  uncxagg2rated.  The  'Vsign 
of  the  work  is  purely  moral^and  the  lessons  sought 
to  be  inculcated  are  of  universal  application/ and  im 
portance.  They  no  to  impress  upon  us  tk  j  neces 
sity  of  proper  and  early  education — they  show  ;he 
ready  facility  with  which  the  best  natural  powers 
may  be  pen  cried  to  the  worst  purposes — they  stim- 


"4  ADVERTISEMENT. 

ulatc  to  honorable  deeds  in  the  young, — teach  linn- 
ness  under  defeat  and  vicissitude,  and  hold  forth  a 
promise  of  ultimate  and  complete  success  to  well 
directed  perseverance.  By  exhibiting,  at  the 
same  time,  the  injurious  consequences  directly 
flowing  from  each  and  every  aberration  from  the 
standard  of  a  scrupulous  morality,  they  enjoin  the 
strictest  and  most  jealous  conscientiousness.  The 
character  of  Martin  Faber,  not  less  than  that  of 
William  Harding,  may  be  found  hourly  in  rc.il  life. 
The  close  observer  may  often  meet  with  them. 
They  are  here  put  in  direct  opposition,  not  less 
with  the  view  to  contrast  and  comparison,  than  in 
cident  and  interest.  They  will  be  found  to  de- 
velope,  of  themselves,  and  by  their  results,  the  na 
ture  of  the  education  which  had  been  severally 
given  them.  When  the  author  speaks  of  education 
he  does  not  so  much  refer  to  that  received  at  the 
school  and  the  academy,  lie  would  be  under 
stood  to  indicate  that  which  the  young  acqriro  at 
home  in  the  parental  dwelling—under  the  parental 


ADVERTISEMENT.  J 

rye— in  the  domestic  circle — at  the  family  lire  side, 
from  those  who,  by  nature,  are  best  calculated  to 
lay  the  guiding  and  the  governing  principles.  It 
is  not  at  the  university  that  the  affections  and  the 
moral  faculties  are  to  be  tutored.  The  heart,  and— 
Irspctitcs  morales — the  manners,  have  quite  anotl  rr 
school  and  other  teachers,  all  of  which  are  but  too 
little  considered  by  the  guardians  of  the  young. 
These  are — the  father  and  the  mother  and  the 
friends— the  play-mates  and  the  play-places. 


MARTIN  FADER. 


CHAPTER    I. 

"  This  is  a  fearful  precipice,  but  I  dare 
look  upon  it.  \VJiat,  indeed,  may  I  not 
ilarr — what  have  I  not  dared !  I  look  be 
fore  me,  and  the  prospect,  to  most  men  full 
of  terrors,  has  few  or  none  for  me.  With 
out  adopting  too  greatly  the  spirit  of  cant 
which  makes  it  a  familiar  phrase  in  the 
mouths  of  the  many,  death  to  me  will  prove 
a  release  from  many  strifes  and  terrors.  I  do 
not  fear  death.  I  look  behind  me,  and  though 

I  may  regret  my   crimes,  they  give  me  no 
2 


6  MARTIN     FABLR. 

compunctious  apprehensions.  Tl\ey  were 
among  the  occurrences  known  to,  and  a  ne 
cessary  sequence  in  the  progress  of  time  and 
the  world's  circumstance.  They  might  have 
been  committed  by  another  as  well  as  by  my- 
•elf.  They  must  have  bi-en  committed  !  I 
was  but  an  instrument  in  the  hands  of  a  power 
with  which  I  could  not  contend. 

Yet,  what  a  prospect,  does  this  backward 
glance  afford  !  How  full  of  colors  and  char 
acters — How  variously  dark  ami  briirht.  I 
am  dazzled  and  confounded  at  the  various 
phases  of  my  own  life.  I  wonder  ai  the  pro 
digious  strides  which  my  own  feet  hav<}  taken 
— and  as  I  live  and  must  die,  I  am  bold  to  de 
clare, — in  half  the  number  of  instances,  with 
out  my  own  consciousness.  Should  I  be  con 
sidered  the  criminal,  in  deeds  so  committed  ? 


M  A  K  T  I  N    F  A  D  E  ft .  7 

Had  not  my  arm  been  impelled — had  not  my 
mood  been  prompted  by  powers  and  an  agen 
cy  apart  from  my  own,  I  had  not  struck  the 
blow.  The  demon  was  not  of  me,  though 
presiding  over,  and  prevailing  within,  me.  Let 
those  who  may  think,  when  the  blood  is  boil 
ing  in  their  temples,  analyze  its  throbs  and  the 
source  of  its  impulses.  I  cannot.  I  am  a 
fatalist.  Enough  for  me  that  it  was  written  ! 

My  name  is  Martin  Faber.  I  am  of  good 
family — of  German  extraction — the  only  son. 
I  was  born  in  M village,  and  my  pa 
rents  were  recognized  as  among  the  first  in 
respectability  and  fortune  of  the  place.  The 
village  was  small — numbering  some  sixty  fam 
ilies  ;  and  with  a  naturally  strong  and  shrewd, 
and  a  somewhat  improved  mind,  my  father, 
Nicholas  Faber.  became  the  first  man  in  it. 


8  MARTIN    FADE  R. 

The  village  of  M ,  was  one  of  those  that 

always  keep  stationary.  The  prospect  \vas 
slight,  therefore,  of  our  family  declining  in  in 
fluence.  My  father,  on  the  contrary,  grew 
every  Jay  stronger  in  the  estimation  of  the 
people.  He  was  their  oracle — their  counsellor 
— his  word  was  law,  and  there  were  no  rival 
pretensions  set  up  in  opposition  to  his  supre 
macy.  Would  this  had  been  less  the  case ! 
Had  Nicholas  Faber  been  more  his  own,  than 
the  creature  of  others,  Martin,  his  son,  had 
not  now  obliterated  all  the  good  impressions 
of  his  family,  and  been  called  upon,  not  only 
to  recount  his  disgrace  and  crime,  but  to  pny 
its  penalties.  Had  he  bestowed  more  of  hi* 
time  in  the  regulation  of  his  household,  and 
less  upon,  public  afTiiirs,  the  numberless  vici 
ous  propensities,  strikinglv  marked  in  me 


MARTIN    FABER.  9 

from  childhood  up,  had,  most  probably  been 
sufficiently  restrained.  But  \vhy  speak  of 
this?  As  I  have  already  sc*id — it  was  written  ! 
The  only  child,  I  was  necessarily  a  favor 
ite.  The  pet  of  mama,  the  prodigy  of  pppa, 
I  was  schooled  to  dogmatize  and  do  as  I 
pleased  from  my  earlier  infancy.  I  grew 
apace,  but  in  compliance  with  maternal  ten 
derness,  which  dreaded  the  too  soon  exposure 
of  her  child's  nerves,  health  and  sensibilities,  I 
was  withheld  from  school  for  sometime  after 
other  children  are  usually  put  in  charge. of  a 
tutor.  When  sent,  the  case  was  not  very 
greatly  amended.  I  learned  nothing,  or  what 
I  learned  was  entirely  obliterated  by  lh«  na 
ture  of  my  education  and  treatment  at  home. 
I  cared  little  to  learn,  and  my  tutor  dared  not 

coerce  me.    His  name  was  Michael  Andrews. 
o* 


10  MARTIN    KABKR. 

He  was  a  poor,  miserable  hireling,  \vho  having 
a  large  and  depending  family,  dared  not.  offend 
by  the  chastisement  of  the  favorite  son  of  a 
person  of  so  much  consequence  as  my  father. 
Whatever  I  said  or  did,  therefore,  went  by 
without  notice,  and  with  the  most  perfect  im 
punity.  I  was  a  truant,  and  exulted  in  my 
irregularities,  without  the  fear  or  prospect  of 
punishment.  I  was  brutal  and  boorish — sav 
age  and  licentious.  To  inferiors  I  was  wan 
tonly  cruel.  In  my  connexion  with  superior?, 
I  was  cunning  and  hypocritical.  If,  wanting 
in  physical  strength,  I  dared  not  break  ground 
and  go  to  blows  with  my  opponent,  I,  never 
theless,  yielded  not,  except  in  appearance.  I 
waited  for  my  time,  and  seldom  permitted  the 
opportunity  to  escape,  in  which  I  could  revenge 
myself  with  tenfold  interest,  for  provocation 


M  A  H  T  I  N    V  \  B  E  K .  11 

or -injustice.  Nor  did  I  discriminate  between 
those  to  whom  this  conduct  was  exhibited.  To 
all  alike,  I  carried  the  same  countenance.  To 
the  servant,  the  schoolmaster,  the  citizen,  and 
even  to  my  parents,  I  was  rude  and  insolent. 
My  defiance  was  ready  for  them  all,  and  when, 
as  sometimes,  even  at  the  most  early  stages 
of  childhood,  1  passed  beyond  those  bounds  of 
toleration,  assigned  to  my  conduct,  tacitly,  as  it 
were,  by  rny  father  and  mother,  my  only  rebuke 
was  in  some  such  miserably  unmeaning  lan 
guage  as  this — 'Now,  my  dear — now  Maitin 
— how  can  you  be  so  bad* — or.  '  I  will  be 
vexed  with  you,  Martin,  if  you  go  on  so.' 

What  was  such  a  rebuke  to  an  overgrown 
boy,  to  whom  continued  and  most  unvarying 
deference,  on  all  hands,  had  given  the  most 
extravagant  idea  of  his  own  importance.  I 


12  MARTIN    F  ABE  R. 

bade  defiance  to  threats — I  laughed  at  a,nd 
scorned  reproaches.  I  ridiculed  the  soothings 
and  the  entreaties  of  my  mother ;  and  her  gifts 
and  toys  and  favors,  furnished  in  order  to  tempt 
me  to  the  habits  which  she  had  not  the  cou 
rage  to  compel,  were  only  received  as  things 
of  course,  which  it  was  JUT  duty  to  give  mo. 
My  falher,  whose  natural  good  sense,  some 
times  made  him  turn  an  eye  of  misgiving  up 
on  my  practices,  wanted  the  stern  sense  of 
duty  which  would  probably  have  brought 
about  a  different  habit ;  and  when,  as  was  oc 
casionally  the  case,  his  words  were  harsh  and 
his  look  austere,  I  went,  muttering  curses, 
from  his  presence,  and  howling  back  my  do- 
fiance  for  his  threats,  i  was  thus  brought  up 
without  a  sense  of  propriety — without  a  feel 
ing  of  fear.  I  had  no  respect  for  authority — 


MAI!TI>;     I'MIKR.  1'J 

no  regard  for  morals.  I  was  a  brute  from  edu 
cation,  and  whether  nature  did  or  not,  conlri- 
bi:tc  to  the  moral  constitution  of  the  creature 
which  I  now  appear,  certain,  1  am,  that  the 
rourse  of  tutorship  which  I  received  from  nil 
around  me,  would  have  made  me  so.  You 
will  argue  from  this  against  my  notion  of  the 
destinies,  since  I  admit,  impiiedly,  that  a  dif 
ferent  course  of  education,  would  have  brought 
about  different  results.  I  think  not.  The 
case  is  still  the  same.  I  was  fated  to  be  so  ^ 
tutored. 


CHAPTER    II. 

There  was  at  the  school  to  which  I  went, 
a  boy  about  twelve,  the  same  age  with  myself. 
His  name  was  William  Harding — he  was  the 
only  child  of  a  widow  lady,  living  a  retired 
life — of  blameless  character,  and  a  disposition 
the  most  amiable  and  shrinking.  This  dispo 
sition  was  inherited  by  her  son,  in  the  most 
extravagant  degree.  He  had  been  the  child 
of  affliction.  His  father  had  been  murdered 
in  a  night  affray  in  a  neighbouring  city,  and 
his  body  had  been  brought  home  to  the  house 
and  presence  of  his  lady,  when  she  was  far 
advanced  in  pregnancy.  The  sudden  and  ter 
rible  character  of  the  shock  brought  on  the 


MARTIN    FABER.  15 

pains  of  labour.     Her  life  was  saved  with  dif 
ficulty,  and,  seemingly  by  miraculous  interpo 
sition,  the  life  of  her  infant  was  also  preserved. 
But  he  was  the  creature  of  the  deepest  sensi 
bility.     His  nervous  organization  was  peculi 
arly  susceptible.    He  was  affected  by  circum 
stances  the  most  trifling  and   casual — trem 
bled  and  shrunk  from  every  unwonted  breeze 
— withered  beneath  reproach,  and  pined  under 
neglect.     80  marked  a  character,  presenting 
too,  as  it  did,  a  contrast,  so  strikingly  with  my 
own,  attracted  my  attention,  at  an  early  period 
of  our  school  association.     His  dependence, 
his  weakness,  his  terrors — all  made  him  an  ob 
ject  of  a  consideration  which  no  other  character 
would  have  provoked.     I  loved  him — strange 
to  say — and  with  a  feeling  of  singular  power. 
I  fought  his  battles — I  never  permitted  him  to 


16  MARTIN    FAB  £11. 

be  imposed  upon  : — and  he — could  he  do  les^? 
— he  assisted  me  in  my  lessons,  he  worked  my 
sums,  lie  helped  my  understanding  in  its  defi 
ciencies  he  reproved  my  improprieties — and 
I — I  bore  with  and  submitted  patiently  on  most 
occasions  to  his  reproofs.  William  Harding 
was  a  genius,  and  one  of  the  first  order ;  but 
his  nervous  susceptibilities  left  him  perfectly 
hopeless  and  helpless.  Collision  with  the 
world  of  man  would  have  destroyed  him  ;  and, 
as  it  was,  the  excess  of  the  imaginative  quality 
which  seemed  to  keep  even  pace  with  his  sen 
sibilities,  left  him  continually  struggling — and 
aa  continually  to  the  injury  and  overthrow  of 
the  latter — with  the  calm  suggestions  of  his 
judgment.  lie  was  a  creature  to  be  loved  and 
pitied  :  and  without  entertaining,  at  this  period, 
a  single  se  itimcnt  savoring  of  either  of  these, 


MARTIN     FA  HER.  17 

for  any  oilier  existing  being,  I  both  loved  and 
pilicd  him. 

One  day,  1o  the  surprize  of  all,  William 
Harding  appeared  in  his  class,  perfectly  igno 
rant  of  his  lesson.  The  master  did  not  pun 
ish  him  \viih  .stripes,  hut,  as  the  school  was 
about  to  be  dismissed,  commanding  the  trem 
bling  boy  before  him,  he  hung  about  his  neck 
a  badge  made  of  card,  on  which  was  conspicu 
ously  printed,  the  word  '  idler.' — With  this 
badge  he  was  required  to  return  home,  re-ap 
pearing  at  school  with  it  the  ensiling  afternoon. 

A  more  bitter  disgrace  could  not,  by  any 
ingenuity,  have  been  put  upon  the  proud  and 
delicate  spirit  of  this  ambitious  boy.  I  never 
saw  dismay  more  perfectly  depicted  upon  any 
countenance.  His  spirit  did  not  permit  him 

to  implore.     But  his  eye — it  spoke  volumes 
3 


18  MARTIN     KA  HER. 

of  appeal — it  was  full  of  entreaty.  The  old 
man  saw  it  not.  Tlic  school  was  dismissed, 
and,  in  a  paroxysm  of  grief  wlych  seemed  to 
prostrate  every  faculty,  my  companion  threw 
himself  upon  the  long  grass  in  the  neighbour 
hood  of  the  school-house,  and  refused  to  ho 
comforted.  I  fought  him  out,  and  curious  to 
know  the  cause  of  an  omission  which  in  him 
was  remarkable,  and  should  therefore  have 
been  overlooked  by  our  tutor,  I  enquired  of 
him  the  reason.  The  cruelty  of  his  punish 
ment  was  now  more  than  ever,  apparent  to 

my  eyes.     His  mother  had  been  ill  during  the 

O 

whole  previous  night,  and  he  had  been  keep 
ing  watch  and  attending  upon  her.  I  was  in 
dignant,  and  urged  him  to  throw  aside  the  card 
beneath  the  trees,  and  resume  it  upon  his  re 
turn  to  the  school.  Rut  he  would  not  descend 


M  A  R  T  I  N     F  A  B  E  R  19 

to  the  meanness  of  such  an  act,  and  resolutely 
determined  to  bear  his  punishment.  I  was  of 
a  different  temper.  Grown  bold  and  confident 
by  the  frequent  indulgencies  which  had  so 
often  sanctioned  my  own  aberrations,  I  had  al 
ready  assumed  the  burdens  of  my  comrades, 
escaping  myself,  while  effecting  their  escape. 
Should  I  now  hesitate,  when  a  sense  of  jus 
tice,  and  a  feeling  of  friendly  .sympathy  coa 
lesced  towards  the  same  end,  both  calling  upon 
me  for  action.  I  did  not-  I  seized  upon  the 
accursed  tablet,  t  tore  it  from  his  bosom,  and 
hacking  ii  to  pieces  of  the  smallest  dimensions, 
I  hurled  them  to  me  winds,  declaring,  at  the 
same  time,  his  freedom,  with  a  shout.  He 
would  have  resisted,  and  honestly  and  ear 
nestly  endeavored  to  prevent  the  commission 
of  the  act.  But  in  vain,  and  with  a  feeling  of 


20  MARTIN    FADE  II. 

ihetruent  salinfaction,  I  beheld  liim  return 
to  bin  Huttcring  parent.  Hut  my  turn  wan  to 
come.  I  had  no  fcftrs  for  the  consequence, 
having  been  accustomed  to  violate  the  rules  of 
school,  with  impunity.  Harding  appearing 
without  his  badge,  was  questioned,  and  firmly 
refused  to  answer.  I  boldly  pronounced  my 
handiwork,  no  one  else  venturing  to  speak, 
fearing  my  vengeance,  though  several  in  the 
school,  had  been  cognizant  of  the  whole  affair. 
At  the  usual  hour  of  dismissal,  I  wi-.s  instruct 
ed  to  remain,  and  when  all  had  departed,  I  was 
taken  by  the  master,  into  a  Hmall  adjoining 
apartment,  in  which  IK;  usually  studied  and 
kept  his  books,  and  which  formed  the  passage 
way  from  his  school-room  to  his  dwelling- 
house.  Here  I  was  conducted,  and  wonder 
ing  and  curious,  at  these  preliminaries,  here  I 


MARTIN     FABfiR.  i!  1 

awaited  his  presence.  I  had  been  guilty  of 
insubordination  and  insurrection,  and  was  not 
altogether  sure  that  he  would  not  proceed  to 
(Ion  me.  But  not  so.  lie  spoke  to  rue  like  a 
father — as  my  father  had  never  spoken  to  me — 
his  words  were  those  of  monitorial  kindness 
and  regard.  lie  described  the  evil  conse- 
cjiirnces  to  his  authority  if  such  conduct  were 
tolerated  ;  and  contented  himself  with  requir 
ing  from  me  a  promise  of  apology  before  ihe 
assembled  school  on  the  ensuing  morning.  I . 
laughed  in  his  face,  lie  was  indignant,  as 
well  he  might  he,  and,  under  the  momentary 
impulse,  he  gave  me  a  smart  blow  with  his 
open  hand  upon  my  cheek.  I  was  but  a  boy — 
some  thirteen  or  fourteen  years  of  age, — but, 
at  that  moment,  I  measured  with  my  rye  the 

entire  man  before  me,    and  though  swelling 
3* 


22  MARTIN  FADER. 

with  fury,  coolly  calculated  the  chances  of 
success  in  a  physical  struggle.  Had  there 
been  a  stick  or  weapon,  of  any  description  at 
hand,  I  might  not  have  hesitated.  As  it  was, 
however,  prudence  came  to  my  counsel.  [ 
submitted,  though  my  heart  rankled,  and  my 
spirit  burned  within  me  for  revenue ; — and  I 
had  it-^-vears  afterwards  I  had  it — a  deep,  a 
dreadful  revenge.  For  the  time,  however,  f 
contented  myself  with  one  more  congenial 
wrli  the  little  spirit  of  a  bad  ar.d  brutal  boy. 
In  school-boy  phrase,  he  kept  me  in — he  took 
from  me  my  freedom,  locking  me  up  safely  in 
the  little  study,  into  which  I  had  been  con 
ducted. 

While  in  that  room  shut  up,  what  were  my 

emotions  !     The  spirit  of  a  demon  was  work- 

^ 

ing  within  me,  and  the  passions  acting  upon 


M  A  R  T  I  N    F  A  D  E  II.  23 

my  spirit  nearly  exhausted  my  body,    i  threw 
«nysclf  upon  the  floor,  and  wept — hot,  scalding 
and  bill  IT  tears.     I  stamped,  I  raved,  I  swore. 
On   a   sudden  I  heard  the  voice  of  Harding 
mournfully  addressing  me  through  the  parti- 
lion  which  separated  the  school  room  from  my 
dungeon.     He  had  come  to  sympathize,  and, 
if  possible,   to  assist  me.     But   I  would  not 
know — I  would  not  hear  him.     The  gloomy 
liend  was  uppermost,  and  I  suddenly  became 
>ilent.     I  would  not  answer  his  inquiries — I 
was  dumb  to  all  his  friendly  appeals.  In  vain 
did  the   affectionate  boy  try  every  mode  of 
winning  me  to  hear  and  to  reply.    I  was  stub 
born,  and,  at  length,  as  the  dusk  came  on,  I 
could  hear  his  departing  footsteps,  as  he  had 
slowly  and  sorrowfully  given  up  his  object  in 
despair.     He  was  gone,  and  I  rose  from  the 


24  MARTIN  FADE R. 

floor,  upon  which  I  had  thrown  myself.  The 
first  paroxysms  of  my  anger  had  gone  off,  ar.d 
their  subdued  expression  gave  me  an  oppor 
tunity  more  deeply  to  investigate  my  injuries, 
and  meditate  my  revenge.  J  strode  up  and 
down  the  apartment  for  sometime,  when,  all 
of  a  sudden,  I  beheld  the  two  larpo,  new  and 
beautiful  globes,  which  my  teacher  had  but 
a  little  while  before  purchased  at  a  large  price, 
and  not  without  great  difficulty,  from  his  little 
savings.  He  was  a  philosopher,  and  this 
study  was  one  of  his  greatest  delights.  My 
revenge  stood  embodied  before  me.  I  felt 
<  that  I  too  could  now  administer  pain  and  pun 
ishment.  Though  small  in  proportion  to  what, 
it  appeared  to  me,  my  wrongs  required,  I  well 
knew  that  to  injure  his  globrs,  would  be  al 
most  the  severest  injury  I  could  infjct  upon 


MARTIN    FADER.  25 

their  owner.     J    did  not    pause — the  demon 
was  impatient.     I  sei/ed  the  jug  of  ink  that 
stood  upon  the  shelf  below  them,  and  carefully 
poured  its  contents   upon  the  beautifully  var 
nished  and  colored  outlines   of  the  celestial 
regions.     They  were  ruined — irreparably  ru 
ined  ;  and  where  the  ink,  in  its  course,  had 
failed  to  obliterate  the  figures,  I  took  care  that 
the  omission  should  be  amended  by  employ 
ing  a  feather,  still  further  to  complete  their 
destruction.     This,  you  may  say,  is  quite  too 
trilling  an  incident  for  record.  No  such  thing. 
44  The  child's  the  parent  of  the  man."     In  one 
sense,   the    life  of  the  child   is   made  up   of 
In  lies;  but  the  exercises  of  his  juvei  ile  years 
will   at  all  times   indicate  w  hat    they  \vill  be 
when  lie  becomes"  old.     The  same  passions 
which  prompted  the  act  just  narrated,  would 


26  MARTIN     FAB  Lit. 

move  the  grown  incendiary  to  the  firing  of  his 
neighbor's  dwelling.  The  same  passions 
prompted  me  in  after  years  to  exaggerated 
offences.  How  could  it  be  otherwise  ?  They 
were  my  fate ! 

Vainly  would  I  endeavor  to  describe  the 
rage,  the  agony  of  wrath,  which  came  over  the 
face  of  my  tutor  upon  discovering  what  I  had 
done.  It  is  fresh  in  my  memory,  as  if  the  oc 
currence  had  taken  place  but  yesterday.  I 
was  in  the  study,  where  he  had  left  me,  upon 
his  return.  Indeed,  I  could  not  effect  my  es 
cape,  or  I  had  certainly  done  so.  The  room 
was  dark,  and  for  some  lime,  walking  to  ;uul 
fro,  and  exhorting  me  in  the  most  parental 
manner  as  he  walked,  he  failed  to  perceive  his 
globes  or  the  injury  they  had  sustained.  In 
this  way,  he  went  on,  speaking  to  me,  in  a 


MARTIN  F  A  n  E  R  ,  27 

way,  which,  had  not  my  spirit  been  acted  on 
by  the  arch  enemy  of  man,  must  have  had  the 
effect  of  compelling  me  to  acknowledge  and  to 
atone,  by  the  only  mode  in  my  power,  for  my 
errors  and  misconduct.  I  had,  indeed,  begun 
to  be  touched.  I  felt  a  disposition  to  regret 
my  act,  and  almost  inclined  to  submission  and 
apology.  But  on  a  sudden,  he  paused — the 
globes  caught  his  eye — he  approached  and  in 
spected  them  narrowly.  Passing  his  hands 
over  his  eyes,  ho  seemed  to  doubt  the  cor 
rectness  of  his  vision  ;  but  when  he  ascer 
tained,  for  a  truth,  the  extent  of  the  evil,  tears 
actually  started  from  the  decaying  orbs,  and 
rolled  as  freely  as  from  the  eyes  of  childhood, 
down  his  lean  and  wrinkled  face.  Then  was 
rny  triumph.  I  gloated  in  his  suffering,  and,  t 
actually,  under  the  most  involuntary  impulse, 


28  MARTIN    HABER. 

I  approached,  and  keenly  watched  hw  suffer 
ing.     He  beheld  my  approach — he  saw  the 
demon  look  of  exultation  which  I  wore ;  and 
human  passion  triumphed.    He  turned  shortly 
upon  me,  and  with  a   severe  blow  of  his  fist, 
he  smote  me  to  the  ground.     I  was  half  stun 
ned,  but  soon  recovered,  and  with  a  degree  of 
unconsciousness,   perfectly  brutish,  I  rushed 
upon  him.    But  he  was  too  much  for  me.    Ho 
held  me  firmly  with  one  hand,  and,  his  anger 
now  more  fully  provoked  by  my  attack,  he  in 
flicted  upon  me  a  very  severe  flowing — al 
most  the  only  one  which  I  had  ever  received. 
It  was  certainly  most  richly  deserved  ;  but  I 
thought  not  so  then.    I  looked  upon  myself  as 
the   victim  of  a  most  unjust i liable — a   most 
^wanton  persecution.     I  did  not,  for  a  moment, 
consider  the  vast   robbery  I  had  made  from 


MARTIN    P  .VB  Ell.  20 

tli;il  poor  old  man's  small  stock  of  happiness 
and  enjoyment.  My  feelings  were  all  concen 
trated  in  self;  and  mv  ideas  of  justice,  where 
my  own  interests  or  emotions  were  concerned, 
were  in  no  decree  abstract.  I  knew  but  one 
bciniZ  in  the  world,  whose  claims  were  to  be 
considered,  and  that  individual,  was,  of  course, 
myself. 

1  was  now  dismissed,  and  sore  and  smarting 
in  body  and  mind,  I  returned  to  my  home.  I 
showed  my  bruises ;  I  fabricated  a  story  of 
greater  wrongs  and  injuries.  I  dwelt  upon  the 
unprovoked  aggression ;  taking  care  to  sup 
press  all  particulars  which  might  have  modi 
fied  the  offence  of  my  teacher.  The  flogging 
he  had  given  me,  had  been  a  most  severe  one 
— and,  the  cause  not  being  heard,  would  seem 
to  have  been  most  brutal.  This  was  another 


30  MARTIN    FADER. 

part  of  my  revenge,  and  it  hud  its  consequences. 
A  solemn  convocation  of  the  chief  men  of  the 
village,  of  whom  my  father  was  the  dictator, 
incensed  at  the  indignity,  as  it  met  their 
senses,  and  relying  upon  my  ex  parte  repre 
sentation,  determined,  without  further  hearing, 
upon  the  offence.  Michael  Andrews  lost  his 
school  with  every  circumstance  of  ignominy  ; 
and  in  a  most  pitiable  condition  of  poverty,  in 
a  few  weeks,  was  compelled  to  leave  the  place. 
I  was  yet  unsatisfied — my  revenge  was  not 
altogether  complete — hoy  as  I  was — unless  I 
could  actually  survey  it.  I  went  to  see  him 
depart.  I  watched  him,  as  in  a  misrrable  wa 
gon,  containing  all  his  household  gear,  he 
drove  into  the  adjacent  country,  attended  by  a 
wife  and  four  young  children.  I  exulted  in 
the  prospect ;  as,  from  a  little  hillock  which 


M  A  R  T  I  N    F  A  HER.  $  1 

ovei looked  the  road  they  were  compelled  to 
travel,  I  looked  down  upon  their  departure. 
They  beheld  me,  and  the  faces  of  all  were 
immediately  turned  away.  There  is  a  digni 
fied  something  in  decent  sorrow,  and  suffer 
ing  borne  in  silence,  which  places  it  above, 
while  it  forbids  anything  like  the  spoken  taunt 
or  triumph ; — I  had  otherwise  shouted  my 
cry  of  victory  in  their  cars.  As  it  was,  they 
proceeded  on  their  wny  into  the  country.  I 
was,  at  length,  satisfied  with  my  revenge, 
did  not  care  to  follow  them. 


CHAPTER   IIT. 

Under  the  direction  of  a  more  supple  tutor 
than  the  first,  I  finished  my  education,  if  so 
we  may  call  it.  William  Harding  was  still 
my  associate.  He  was  still  the  same  nervous, 
susceptible,  gentle  youth  ;  and  though,  as  he 
grew  older,  the  more  yielding  points  of  his 
character  became  modified  in  his  associations 
with  society,  he  nevertheless  did  not  vary  in 
his  mental  and  moral  make,  from  what  I  have 
already  described  him.  Thouuh  diHappro\ing 
of  many  of  my  habits  and  propensities,  and 
continually  exhorting  me  upon  them,  he  yet 
felt  the  compliment  which  my  spirit,  involun 
tarily,  as  it  were,  rendered  to  his;  and  he  was 


MARTIN    FA  BER.  33 

not  at  any  time  averse  to  the  association  which 
I  tendered  him.  Still  he  was  like  me  in  fewf 
respects,  if  any.  It  is  the  somewhat  popular 
notion  that  sympathy  in  pursuit,  and  opinions 
and  sentiments  in  common,  bring  about  the 
connexions  of  friendship  and  love.  I  think 
differently.  Such  connexions  spring  from  a 
thousand  causes  which  have  no  origin  in  mu 
tual  sympathies.  The  true  source  of  the  re 
lationship  is  the  dependence  and  weakness  on 
the  one  hand — the  strength  and  protection  on 
the  other.  This,  I  verily  believe,  was  the  fact 
in  oui  case. 

With  little  other  society  than  that  of  Wil 
liam  Harding,  years  glided  away,  and  if  they 
brought  little  improvement  to  my  moral  attri 
butes — they,  at  least,  bringing  no  provoca 
tion,  left  in  abeyance  and  dormancy,  many  of 
4* 


34  MARTIN   .FA  BE  ft. 

those  which  were  decidedly  immoral.  My 
physical  man  was  decidedly  improved  in  their 
progress.  My  features  underwent  consider- 
able  change  for  the  better — my  manners  were 
far  less  objectionable— I  had  suppressed  the 
more  rude  and  brutal  features,  and,  mingling 
more  with  society — that  particularly  of  the  oth 
er  sex — I  had  seen  and  obeyed  the  necessity  of 
a  gentlemanly  demeanor.  But  my  heart  occu 
pied  the  same  place  and  character — llicre  was 
no  change  in  that  region.  There,  all  was  stub- 
borness  and  selfishness — a  scorn  for  the  pos 
sessions  and  claims  of  others — a  resolute  and 
persevering  impulse  which  perpetually  sought 
to  exercise  and  elevate  its  own.  The  spell  of 
my  fate  was  upon  it — it  seemed  seared  and 
soured — and  while  it  blighted,  and  sought  to 
blight  the  fortunes  and  the  feelings  of  others, 


MARTIN     FADE  11.  35 

without  any  sympathy,  it  seemed  neverthe 
less,  invariably,  to  partake  of  the  blight.  In 
this  respect,  in  the  vexation  of  my  spirit  at  this 
similize  inconsistency  of  character,  I  used  to 
curse  myself,  that  I  was  not  like  the  serpent — 
that  I  could  not  envenom  my  enemy,  without 
infecting  my  own  system,  with  the  poison 
meant  only  lor  his.  To  this  mood,  the  want  of 
employment  slave  activity  if  not  exercise  and 
exhibition.  The  secretions  of  my  malignity, 
having  no  object  of  development,  jaundiced 
my  whole  moral  existence  ;  and  a  general  hos 
tility  to  human  nature  and  the  things  of  society, 
at  this  stage  of  my  being,  vented  itself  in  idle 
curses,  and  bitter  but  futile  denunciations.  I 
lived  only  in  the  night  time — my  life  has  been 
a  long  night,  in  which  there  has  been  no  star 
light — in  which  there  have  been  many  tem- 


36  MARTIN    FABLR. 

pests.  Talk  not  of  Greenland  darkm  ss,  or 
Norwegian  ice.  The  moral  darkness  is  the 
most  solid — and  what  cold  is  there  like  that, 
where,  walled  in  a  black  dungeon  of  hates  and 
fears  and  sleepless  hostility,  the  heart  broods 
in  bitterness  and  solitude,  over  its  own  can 
kering  and  malignant  purposes. 

Many  years  had  now  elapsed  since  my  ad 
venture  with  Michael  Andrews,  my  old  school 
master.  I  had  grown  up  to  manhood,  and  my 
personal  appearance,  had  been  so  completely 
changed  by  the  forming  hand  of  time,  that  I 
had  not  the  same  looks  which  distinguished 
me  at  that  period  One  morning,  pursuing  a 
favorite  amusement,  I  had  wandered  with  my 
gun  for  some  distance,  into  a  part  of  the  coun 
try,  which  was  almost  entirely  unknown  to 
me.  The  game,  though  plentiful,  was  rather 


MAIITIX    FADER.  37 

shy,  and  in  its  pursuit,  I   was  easily  seduced 
to  a  greater  distance  from  our  village,  and  on 
ihc  opposite  side  of  a  stream,  \vhich  though 
nut  a  river,  was  yet  sufficiently  large,  particu 
larly  when  swollen  by  freshets, — a  not  unfre- 
«iuent  event — to  make  something  like   a  bar 
rier  and  dividing  line  between  two  divisions  of 
the  country.     The  day  was  line,  and  without 
being  at    all   conscious  of  the  extent  of  my 
wandering*,  1  proceeded  some  fourteen  or  fif 
teen  miles.     My  way  led  through  a  clos*  and 
umbrageous  forest.    A  grove  of  dwarf  or  scrub 
oaks,  woven  about  with  thick  vines  and  shel 
tering  foliage,  gav<5  a  delightful  air  of  quiet 
ness  lo  the  scene,  which  could  not  fail  altoge 
ther  in  its  effect  on  a  spirit  as  discontented  and 
querulous  even   as  mine.     Wandering   from 
place  to  place  in  the  silent  and  seemingly  ?a- 


38  MARTIN    FA  BE  R. 

cred  haunt  of  the  dreamy  nature,  I  perceived, 
for  the  first  time,  a  clear  and  beautifully  wind 
ing  creek,  that  stole  in  and  out,  half  sheltered 
by  the  shrubbery  growing  thickly  about  it — 
now  narrowing  into  a  thin  stream,  and  almost 
lost  among  the  leaves,  and  now  spreading  it 
self  out  in  all  the  rippling  and  glassy  beauty 
of  a  sylvan  and   secluded  lake.     I   was  won 
with  its  charms,  and  pursued  it  in  all  its  bcnd- 
ings.     The  whole  scene  was  unique  in  loveli 
ness*     The  hum  of  the  unquiet  bieczr,  now 
resting  among,  and  now  Hying  from  the  slowly 
waving  branches  above,  alone  broke,  at  inter 
vals,  the  solemn  and  mysteiious  repose  of  that 
silence,  which  here  seemed  to  have  taken  up 
its  exclusive  abode.     Upon  a  bank  th.-it  jutted 
so  far  into  the  lake  by  a  winding  approach,  a* 
almost    to  seem  an   island,  the  tree?;  hnd  been 


MAT.  TIN     FA  BLR.  39 

taught  lo  form  themselves  into  a  bower  ;  while 
the  grass,  neatly  trimmed  within  the  enclo 
sure,  indicated  the  exercise  of  that  art,  whose 
Land  has  given  life  to  the  rock,  and  beauty  to 
the  wilderness.  I  was  naturally  attracted  by 
•the  prospect,  and  approaching  it  from  the 
point  most  sheltered,  came  suddenly  into  the 
presence  of  a  tall  and  beautiful  girl,  about  fif 
teen  years  of  age,  sitting  within  its  shade, 
whose  eyes  cast  down  upon  some  needlework 
which  she  had  in  her  hands,  enabled  me  to 
survey,  for  sometime  before  she  became  con 
scious  of  my  presence,  the  almost  singular 
loveliness  of  feature  and  person  which  she 
possessed.  'She  started,  and  trembled  with  a 
childish  timidity  at  my  approach,  which  not  a 
little  enhanced  the  charm  of  her  beauty  in  my 
.  I  apologized  for  my  intrusion  ;  made 


40  MARTIN  .PA  HER. 

some  commonplace  inquiry  and  remark,  anil 
we  soon  grew  familiar.    The  cottage  in  which 
her  parents  resided,  was  but  a  little  way  olT, 
and   I  was  permitted   to   attend    her   home. 
What  was  my  surprize  to  discover  in  the  per 
son  of  her  father,  my  old  tutor.     But,  fortun 
ately  for  me,  he  was  not  in  a  condition  to  rr- 
cognize  me.     His  mind  and  memory  were  in 
great  part  gone.     He  still  contrived,  mechan 
ically  as  il  were,  to  teach  the   *  accidence'  to 
three  white-headed  urchins,  belonging  to  the 
neighborhood,  and  in  this   way,  with  the  in 
dustry  of  his  daughters,  the  family  procured  a 
tolerable  livelihood.     I  was  treated  kindly  by 
the  old  people,  and  had  certainly  made  some 
slight    impression  on    Emily — the  n.  lidcn    I 
had  accompanied.     I  lingered  for  some  hours 
in  her  company — and,  though  timid,  lined 'i- 


MARTIN    FADER.  41 

<  atcd  and  girlish  in  a  great  degree,  I  was  fas 
cinated  by  her  beauty,  her  gentleness,  and  the 
angelic  smile  upon  her  lips. 

It  was  late  in  the  day  when  I  left  the  house 
of  old  Andrews.  He  had  heard  my  name, 
and  showed  no  emotion.  lie  had  evidently 
forgotten  all  the  circumstances  of  my  boyhood 
in  connexion  with  himself.  I  could  then  ven 
ture  to  return — to  repeat  niy  visits — to  see 
once  more,  and  when  I  pleased,  the  sweet  ob 
ject,  whose  glance  had  aroused  in  my  bosom 
an  emotion  of  sense  and  sentiment  entirely  un 
known  to  it  before.  We  did  meet,  and  each 
returning  day  fcund  me  on  the  same  route. 
Our  intimacy  increased,  and  she  became  my 
own — she  was  my  victim. 

5 


CHAPTER   IV. 

That  girl  was  the  most  artless— the  most 
innocent  of  all  God's  creatures.  Strange!  that. 
she  should  be  condemned  as  a  sacrifice  to  the 
wishes  of  the  worst  and  wildest.  But,  it  wa.s 
her  fate,  not  less  than  mine  !  Need  I  say  that 
I — whose  touch  has  cursed  and  contaminated 
all  whose  ill  fortunes  doomed  them  to  any 
connexion  with  me — I  blighted  and  blasted 
that  innocence,  and  changed  the  smile  into  the 
tear,  and  the  hope  into  the  sorrow,  of  that  fend 
and  foolishly  confiding  creature.  We  were 
both,  comparatively,  children. — She  was,  in 
deed,  in  all  respects  a  child — but  I — I  had 
lived  years — many  years  of  concentrated  wick 
edness  and  crime.  To  do  wron?  was  to  be 


MAHTIN    FABKR.  43 

myself — it  was  natural.  That  I  should  de 
ceive  and  dishonor,  is  not  therefore  matter  of 
surprize ;  but  that  there  should  be  no  guard 
ian  ancjcl — no  protecting  shield  for  the  unwary 
and  the  innocent,  would  seem  to  manifest  an 
unwise  improvidence  in  the  dispenser  of  things. 
A  lew  months  of  our  intimacy  only  had  elap 
sed.  In  the  quiet  and  secluded  bower  where 
we  had  first  met,  she  lay  in  my  arms.  I  had 
wrought  her  imagination  to  the  utmost.  With 
a  stern  sense  and  consciousness,  all  the  while, 
of  what  I  was  doing,  I  had  worked  industri 
ously  upon  the  natural  passions  of  her  bosom. 
Her  lips  were  breathing  and  burning  beneath 
my  own.  Her  bosom  was  beating  violently 
against  mine.  My  arm  encircled  and  clasp 
ed  her  closely.  There  was  a  warm  languor 
in  the  atmosphere — -he  trees  murmured  not— 


44  MARTIN    FABER. 

the  winds  were  at  repose — no  warning  voice 
rose  in  the  woods — no  tempest  blackened  in 
the  sky — the  shrill  scream  of  a  solitary  bird 
at  that  moment  might  have  broken  the  spell — 
might  have  saved  the  victim.    But  the  scream 
came  not — the  fates  had  decreed  it — body  and 
soul,  the  victim  was  mine.     She  was  no  long 
er  the  pure,  the  glad,  the  innocent  and  un 
stained  angel  I  had  first  known   her.     Her 
eyes  were   now  downcast  and   fearful — her 
frame  trembled  with  all  the  consciousness  of 
guilt.     She  gave  up  all  to  her  affection,  for 
one  so  worthless — so  undeserving  as  myself : 
yet  had  she  not  my  affections,  though  loving 
me,  even  as  the  young  and  morning  flower 
may  be  seen  to  link  and  entwine  itself  with 
and  about  the  deadly  and  venomous   night 
shade  ? 


MARTIN    FADER.  45 

Our  intercourse  was  continued  in  this  way 
for  several  months.  The  consequences  now 
bewail  to  threaten  Emily  with  exposure,  and 
she  hourly  besought  me  to  provide  against 
them  by  our  marriage,  as  I  had  already  fre 
quently  promised  her  to  do.  But  I  had  no 
idea  of  making  any  such  sacrifice.  The  pas 
sion  which  had  prompted  me  at  first,  had  no 
longer  a  place  in  my  bosom.  I  did  not  any 
longer  continue  to  deceive  myself  with  the  be 
lief  that  she  cither  was  or  could  be  any  thing 
to  me.  She  had  few  attractions  now  in  my 
si'jht,  and  though  still  beautiful,  more  touch- 
ingly  so,  indeed,,  from  an  habitual  sadness 
which  her  features  had  been  taught  to  wear, 
than  ever, — I  had  learned  to  be  disgusted  and 
to  sicken  at  the  frequency  of  her  complaints, 
and  the  urgency  and  extravagance  of  her  re- 


46  MARTIN    FA  BER. 

quisitions.  Still,  I  could  not  yet  desert  her 
entirely.  I  saw  her  frequently,  and  in  va 
rious  ways  sought,  not  merely  to  evade  her 
entreaties,  but  to  soothe  and  alleviate  her  dis 
tresses. 

To  full  manhood  I  had  now  attained,  and  it 
was  thought  advisable  by  my  father,  that,  as  I 
had  nothing  else  to  do,  I  should  employ  my 
self  in  addressing  a  lady  whom  ho  had  already 
chosen,  as  worthy  to  be  the  consort  of  so  hope 
ful  a  son.  And  she  was  so.  Constance  Clai- 
borne  was  not  merely  y 0111114,  beautiful  and 
wealthy — she  was  amiable  and  accomplished. 
Our  parents  arranged  the  matter  between 
them,  before  either  of  the  parties  most  inter 
ested,  knew  or  suspected  any  thing  of  what 
was  going  on.  I  had  as  yet  heard  nothing  of 
the  affair.  But  that  was  no  objection.  It 


MARTIN    FADER.  47 

proved  none  with  me.  I  was  not  unwilling, 
for  many  reasons,  that  the  marriage  should 
take  place.  It  will  be  sufficient  to  name  one 
of  these  reasons.  Though  liberal,  the  allow 
ance  of  money  for  my  own  expenditure,  which 
I  received  from  my  father,  had,  for  a  long  time 
past,  been  inadequate  to  the  wants  which  my 
excesses  necessarily  occasioned.  I  had  got 
largely  into  debt.  I  was  harrassed  by  credit 
ors  ;  and  had  been  compelled  to  resort  to  va 
rious  improper  expedients,  to  meet  my  exi 
gencies.  My  more  recent  habits  rendered  a 
still  further  increase  of  stipend  essential,  for 
though,  for  some  months,  I  had  given  my  time 
chiefly  to  Emily,  I  had  not  yet  so  entirely 
divested  myself  of  my  old  associates  as  to 
do  with  less  money.  My  pride  too,  would 
not  permit  her  to  want  for  many  things,  and  I 


48  MARTIN    FABER. 

had  contributed,  not  a  little  towards  the  iin- 

V 

provcmcnt  of  the  condition  of  her  family. 
It  is  well  perhaps,  that,  in  a  chronicle  of 
crime,  almost  unvarying,  I  should  not  alto 
gether  overlook  those  instances  of  conduct, 
which,  if  not  praiseworthy,  were,  at  least,  not 
criminal.  The  marriage  was  therefore  deter 
mined  upon.  Constance  was  an  obedient 
child,  and,  without  an  affection  existing,  she 
consented  to  become  my  wife.  Still,  though 
making  up  my  determination,  without  scruple 
on  the  subject,  I  confess  I  was  not  altogether 
at  case  when  my  thoughts  reverted  to  the 
condition  of  the  poor  girl  I  had  dishonored. 
But  what  was  that  condition.  In  pecuniary 
matters,  I  could  make  her  better  of!  than 
ever — and,  so  far  as  caste  wos  concerned  — 
she  could  suffer  no  loss,  for  she  had  known 


MARTIN    FABER.  49 

no  society.  I  never  thought  of  the  intrinsic 
value  and  necessity  of  virtue.  My  considera 
tions  were  all  selfish,  and  tributary  to  conven 
tional  estimates.  With  regard  to  our  connex 
ion,  I  saw  no  difficulty  in  marrying  the  heir 
ess,  and  still  enjoying,  as  before,  the  society 
of  Emily.  Matrimonial  fidelity  was  still  less 
a  subject  of  concern ;  and,  adjusting,  in  this 
way,  the  business  and  relations  of  the  future, 
I  hurried  the  arrangements  and  prepared  as 
siduously  for  the  enjoyments  of  the  bridal. 


CHAPTER   V. 

A  sense  of  ciution — or  it  may  he  of  shame 
— determined  me  to  keep  the  marriage,  as  long 
as  I  well  could,  from  the  knowledge  of  the  one 
being  whom  it  most  injured.  A  few  days  he- 
fore  that  assigned  for  the  event,  I  proceeded 
to  the  place  of  usual  rendezvous.  I  bad  not 
seen  her  for  several  days  before  ;  and  her  looks 
indicated  sickness  and  suspicion.  The  latter 
appearance,  I  did  not  scorn  to  observe,  but 
her  indisposition  called  forth  my  enquiries  and 
regrets.  I  still  strove  to  wear  the  guise  of  af 
fection,  but  my  words  were  cold,  and  my  man 
ner,  I  feel  assured,  wore  all  the  features  of 


MARTIN     FAUKR.  51 

unwell,  Emily,"  I  observed,  putting  my  anus 
around  her — "you  have  not  been  HO,  have 
you  ?" 

*•  Can  you  a>k,"  was  her  reply,  as  her  ryes 
were  mournfully  riveted  upon  my  o\vn; 
"could  1  continue  well,  and  not  see  you  for 
three  days  ?  alas!  Martin,  you  little  know 
how  long  a  period  in  time  is  three  whole  days 
to  me  in  your  absence.  Where  have  youi.ccn 
— have  you  been  sick — you  look  not  as  you 
are  wont  to  look.  You  are  troubled  and  some 
thing  afflicts  you." 

Her  manner  was  tender  in  the  extreme- — 
the  suggestion  even  by  herself  of  indisposi 
tion  as  a  cause  of  my  absence,  seemed  to 
awaken  all  her  solicitude,  and  to  make  her 
regret  her  own  implied  reproaches. 


52  MARTIN    PABER. 

"I  have  been  slightly  unwell,  Emily,"  was 
my  reply,  in  a  tone  gravely  adapted  to  indicate 
something  of  continued  indisposition;  and 
the  possibility  that  this  was  the  case,  brought 
out  all  her  fondness.  How  like  a  child — a 
sweet  confiding  child  she  then  spoke  to  me. 
With  what  deep  and  fervid  devotion — and, 

Vyet,  at  the  very  moment  that  the  accents  of 
her  voice  were  most  touching  and  tender,  I 
had  begun  to  hate  her.  She  was  in  my  way 
— I  saw  how  utterly  impossible  it  was,  that, 
feeling  for  me  as  she  did,  she  could  ever 
tolerate  a  connexion  with  me,  shared  at  the 
same  time  with  another. 

"  But — there  is  one  thing,  Martin — -one 
thing  of  which  I  would  speak — and,  hear  me 
patiently,  and  be  not  angry,  if  in  what  I  say,  I 
may  do  you  injustice  and  may  not  have  heard 


M  A  11 T  I  N    F  A  B  E  R.  5l» 

rightly.  Say,  now,  that  you  will  not  be  an 
gry  with  your  Emily — that  you  will  forgive  her 
speech  if  it  seem  to  rail  in  question  your  in 
tegrity,  for,  as  I  live,  Martin,  I  think  you 
intend  me  no  wrong." 

And  as  she  spoke,  her  hand  grasped  my 
arm  convulsively,  while  one  of  her  own,  as 
if  with  a  spasmodic  effort,  wound  itself  about 
my  neck.  I  saw  that  the  time  for  stern  col 
lision  was  at  hand — that  busy  tongues  had 
been  about  her,  and  I  steeled  myself  stub 
bornly  for  the  struggle  and  the  strife. 

"  And,  what  do  they  say,  Emily — and  who 
arc  they  that  say,  that  which  calls  for  such  a 
note  of  preparation  ?  Speak  out — say  on  !"• 

"  I  will,  Martin — but  look  not  so  upon  me. 
I  cannot  bear  your  frown — any  thing  but 
that." 


54  MARTIN    FA  HER. 

"  Now  then — what  is  said.  What  would 
you  have,  Emily  ?" 

"There  have  been  those  to  my  mother, 
Martin — who  have  doubted  your  love  for  mo, 
and,  ignorant  of  how  much  importance  it  is  to 
me  now,  who  say,  you  are  only  seeking  to  be 
guile  and  to  mislead  me." 

"They  do  me  wrong,  Emily — they  s;  oak 
false,  believe  me,  as  I  live." 

"  I  knew  it,  Martin — I  knew  that  they  did 
you  wrong,  and  I  told  them  so,  but  thoy 
sneered  and  laughed,  and  so  they  left  mo. 
But,  Martin — they  will  speak  to  others,  when 
I  shall  not  be  there  to  defend  you,  and  we 
shall  both  suffer  under  their  suspicions." 

She  paused  here,  and  her  eye  sunk  under 
the  penetrating  gaze  of  mine,  but  suddenly 
recovering,  and  hurrying  herself,  as  if  she 


MARTIN    FADER.  55 

feared  the  loss  of  that  momentary  impulse 
which  then  came  to  sustain  her — she  pro 
ceeded — 

"  I  knew  that  I  should  suffer  from  you  no 
injustice — I  could  not  think  it  possible  that 
you  could  wrong  the  poor  girl,  who  had  confi 
ded  to  you  so  far; — but  Martin — do  not  smile 
at  my  folly — a  something  whispers  me  I  have 
not  long,  not  very  long,  to  live,  and  I  would 
be  your  wife — your  married  wife — before  the 
time  comes  when  my  sin  shall  stand  embod 
ied  before  me.  Let  me  have  the  peace — the 
peace,  Martin,  which  our  lawful  union  will 
bring  with  it ;  for  now  I  have  none.  You  have 
promised  me  frequently — say  now  that  we 
shall  be  married  this  week — say  on  Thursday, 
Martin — on  Thursday  next  that  it  shall  take 
place." 


56  MARTIN    FADE  R. 

I  started  as  she  concluded  the  sentence,  as 

\ 
if  I  had  been  stung  with  an  adder.     Thursday 

was  the  day  appointed  for  my  marriage  with 
Constance.  Had  she  heard  of  this.  I  fixed 
my  eyes  attentively  and  scarchingly  upon  her 
own  ;  but  though  Tilled  with  tears,  they  quail 
ed  not  beneath  my  glance.  On  the  contrary 
her  gaze  was  full  of  intenscncss  and  expres 
sion.  They  conveyed,  in  dumb  language  the 
touching  appeal  of  her  subdued  and  appre 
hensive,  though  seemingly  confident  and  as 
sured,  spirit.  Disappointment,  and  the  hope 
deferred  that  maketh  the  heart  sick,  had  worn 
her  into  meagreness.  Her  checks  were  pale 
— her  look  was  that  of  suppressed  wretched 
ness,  but  these  things  touched  me  not.  I  had 
no  notion  of  compliance,  and  my  only  thought 
was  how  to  break  ofT  a  connexion  that  promis- 


MARTIN  FA  HER.  57 

cd  to  1)0   so  excessively  troublesome.     I  had 
now  become  completely  tired  of  her,  and  told 
her  peremptorily  that  it  was  impossible,  for  a 
variety  of  reasons,  to  grant  her  request.     She 
implored — she  mnde  a  thousand   appeals  to 
every  supposed  impulse  and  emotion  of  man- 
Luod  and  affection ;  to  my  pride,  to  my  honor, 
to  my  love.    I  was  inflexible;  and  finally,  when 
phc  continued  to  press  the  matter  with  a  warmth 
••nul    earnestness  natural  to  one  in  her  situa 
tion,  particularly  as   I  hkd  given  no  reason  for 
my  refusal,  I  grew  brutally  stern  in  my  replies. 
I  repulsed  her  tendernesses,  and  peevishly  at 
length,  uttered  some  threat,  I  know  not  what 
— of  absence,  or  indifference,  or  anger. 

She  retreated  from  me  a  pace,  and  draw 
ing  her  hands  over  her  eyes,  seemed  desirous 

of  .shutting  out  the  presence  of  a  character  so 
6* 


58  MARTIN    FA  BE  R. 

entirely  new  and  unexpected,  as?  I  now  appear 
ed  to  her.  For  a  moment  she  preserved  this 
attitude  in  silence — then  suddenly  again  ap 
proaching,  in  subdued  accents,  she  spoke  as 
at  first. 

"  Your  words  and  look,  Martin,  just  now 
were  so  strange  and  unnatural  that  I  was  al 
most  afraid  of  you.  Do  not  speak  so  again 
to  your  Emily,  but  oh,  grant  her  prayer— her 
last  prayer.  1  do  not  pi  ay  for  myself,  for 
though  I  could  not  live  without  your  affections, 
I  shall  not  need  them  long,  but  1  pray  you 
to  give  a  name,  an  honorable  name,  to  the 
little  innocent  of  this  most  precious  burthen. 
Let  it  not,  if  it  lives,  curse  the  mother  for  the 
boon  of  a  life  which  its  fellows  must  despise, 
and  speak  of  with  scorn  and  ignominy." 


MARTIN    FA  BUR.  59 

I  stood  even  this  appeal.  My  heart  was 
steeled  within  me,  and,  though  I  spoke  to 
her  less  harshly,  I  spoke  as  hypocritically  as 
ever.  She  saw  through  the  thin  veil  which  I 
had  deemed  it  necessary  to  throw  over  my 
dishonesty,  and  a  new  expression  took  the 
place  of  tenderness  in  her  features. 

ik  It  is  all  true  then,  as  they  have  said,"  she 
exclaimed  passionately.  "  Now,  O  God,  do 
J  Iccl  my  iiilii-mily — now  do  I  know  my  sin. 
Anu  this  is  the  creature  I  have  loved — this  is 
the  thing — wanting  in  the  heart  to  feel,  and 
mean  enough  in  sold  10  utter  falsehood  and 
prevaricate — this  is  the  creature  for  whom  I 
have  sacrificed  my  heart — for  whom  I  have 
given  up,  hopelessly  and  haplessly,  my  own 
soul.  Oh,  wretched  fool — oh,  miserable,  most 
miserable  folly.  Yet  think  not,"  and  as  she 


CO  MARTIN    FADER. 

turned  upon  me,  she  looked  like  the  Priestess 
upon  the  tripod,  influenced  with  inspiration— 
"  Think  not,  mean  traitor,  as  tlum  art — think 
not  to  triumph  in  thy  farther  seduction.     Me 
thou  hast  destroyed, — I  am  thy  victim,  and  I 
feel  the  doom  already.     But  thou    shall    m» 
no  farther  in  thy  way.     I  will   seek  out  ihU 
lady,  for  whose  more  attractive   person,  mines 
and  my  honor  and  aircctior.?,  alike,  are  to    he 
sacrificed.     She  shall    hear   from  me  all  the 
truth.     She  shall  know  whether  it  he  compati 
ble  with  her  honor  and  happiness,  or  the  dig 
nity  of  her  character,  to  unite  herself,  in  such 
bonds  with  a  man  who  has  proved  so  ueadlv, 
so  dishonorable  to  her  sex.     And,  oh,  God" — 
she  exclaimed,  sinking  fervently  on  her  knee — 
"  if  it  shall  so  happen  that  I  save  one  such  as 
I,  from  such  a  folly  as  mine,  may  it  not  expi- 


MARTIN    FADER.  61 

\ 

ate  in  ti  v  sight,  some  portion  of  the  sad  offence 
of  whirh  1  have  been  guilty." 

She  rose  firmly  and  without  a  tear.  Her 
ryes  were  red,  her  cheeks  were  burning  with 
the  fever  of  her  whole  frame,  and  she  seem 
ed,  in  all  respects,  the  embodiment  of  a  divine, 
a  glorious  inspiration,  i  was  awed — I  was 
alarmed.  I  had  never  before  seen  her  exhibit 
any  thing  like  daring  or  firmness  of  purpose. 
She  was  now  the  striking  personification  of 
both.  She  approached  and  sought  to  pass  by 
me.  I  seized  her  hand.  She  withdrew  it 
quickly  and  indignantly. 

"  Begone"  she  exclaimed — "  I  scorn,  I  des 
pise  you.  Think  not  to  keep  me  back.  You 
have  brought  death  and  shame  among  my 
people  in  devoting  me  to  both.  You  shall 
pollute  me  no  more.  Nay,  speak  not.  No 


62  MARTIN    FADER. 

more  falsehood,  no  more  falsehood,  for  your 
own  soul's  sake.  I  would  not  that  you  should 
seem  meaner  in  my  sight,  than  you  already 
arc." 

I  seized  her  hand,  and  retained  il  by  a  fierec 
grasp.— 

"  Emily,"  I  exclaimed,  "  what  would  you  do 
— why  is  this  ?  I  ask  but  for  delay,  give  me 
but  a  month,  and  all  will  be  well — you  shall 
then  have  what  you  ask — you  shall  then  be 
satisfied." 

"  False — false  !  These  assurances,  sir,  de 
ceive  me  not  now — they  deceive  rnc  no  more. 
My  hope  is  gone,  forever  gone,  that  you  will 
do  me  justice.  I  see  through  your  hypocrisy 
— I  know  all  your  villainy,  and  Constance 
Claiborne  shall  know  it  too.  I  la  !  do  you 
start  when  her  name  is  but  mentioned.  Think 


MARTIN    FABER.  63 

you,  I  know  it  not  all — know  I  not  thai  3*011 
have  beep,  bought  with  money — that,  vile  and 
mercenary  :<s  you  aro,  you  have  not  only  sold 
mo,  and  this  unborn  pledge  of  your  dishonesty 
and  my  dishonor,  but  you  have  sold  yourself. 
Seek  no!  to  keep  me  back.  She  shall  hear  it 
all  from  these  lips,  that  theuccafter  shall  forev 
er  more  be  silent/' 

She  struggled  to  free  herself  from  my  grasp, 
and  endeavored  to  pass  by  me,  with  a  despe 
rate  effort — her  strength  was  opposed  to  mine, 
(•ii ul  in  the  heat  of  the  struggle  I  forgot  that 
victory  in  such  a  contest  would  be  the  heavi 
est  shame.  Yet,  I  only  sought,  at  first,  to  ar 
rest  her  progress.  As  I  live,  I  had  then  no 
other  object  beyond.  I  certainly  did  not  intend 
violence,  far  less  further  crime.  But  the  fate 
was  upon  me; — she  persisted  in  her  design, 


64  MARTIN    FADER. 

and  in  the  effort  to  prevent  her  passage,  I 
hurled  her  to  the  ground.  I  paused,  in  a 
deadly  stupor,  after  this.  I  was  no  longer  a 
reasoning — a  conscious  being.  She  looked 
up  to  me  imploringly— the  desperate  feeling 
which  heretofore  had  nerved  and  strengthen 
ed  her,  seemed  utterly  to  have  departed.  The 
tears  were  in  her  eyes,  and,  at  that  moment, 
she  would  have  obeyed  as  I  commanded — 
she  would  have  yielded  to  all  my  requisitions 
— she  would  have  been  my  slave.  She  met 
no  answering  gentleness  in  my  eyes,  and  with 
a  choking  and  vain  effort  at  speech,  she  tinn 
ed  her  face  despairingly  upon  the  still  dewy 
grass,  and  sobbed,  as  if  the  strings  of  her 
heart  were  breaking  in  unison  with  each  con 
vulsion  of  her  breast.  At  that  moment,  I  know 
not  what  demon  possessed  me.  There  was 


MARTIN    FABER.  C5 

a  dead — a  more  than  customary  silence  in  all 
things  around  me.  I  felt  a  fury  within  me — 
a  clamorous  anxiety  about  my  heart  —a  gnaw 
ing  something  that  would  not  sleep,  and  could 
not  be  silent  ;  and,  without  a  thought  of  what 
I  was  to  do,  or  what  had  been  done,  I  knelt 
down  beside  her.  My  eyes  wandered  wildly 
around  the  forest,  but  at  length,  invariably  set 
tled,  in  the  end,  upon  her.  There  was  an  in 
stinct  in  all  this  She  had  the  look  of  an  ene 
my  to  the  secret  and  impelling  nature  within 
me,  and,  without  uttering  a  single  word,  my 
finger  with  an  infernal  gripe,  were  upon  her 
throat.  She  could  not  now  doubt  the  despe 
rate  character  of  my  design,  yet  did  she  not 
struggle — but  her  eyes,  they  spoke,  and  sucb 
a  language  !  A  chain  which  I  myself  had 

thrown  about  her  neck — that  neck  all  syme- 

•     7 


60  MARTIN    FA  HER. 

try  and  whiteness — was  in  my  way.  I  sought, 
but  vainly,  to  tear  it  apart  with  my  hands,  and 
could  only  do  so — with  my  teeth.  In  stooping 
for  this,  she  writhed  her  head  round  and  lift 
ed  her  lips  to  mine.  I  sliumk,  as  from  the 
fang  of  a  serpent.  They  had  a  worse  sting, 
at  that  moment,  in  my  eyes.  Mournfully,  as 
she  saw  this,  she  implored  my  mercy. — 

"  Spare,  forgive,  dearest  Martin,  I  will  never 
vex  you  again — spare  me  this  time,  and  I  will 
be  silent.  Kill  me  not — kill  me  not": — more 
wildly  she  exclaimed  as  my  grasp  became  more 
painful — "I  am  too  young  to  die — I  am  too 
bad  to  perish  in  my  sins.  Spare  me — spare 
me.  I  will  not  accuse  you — I — (*od!  Oh, 
(J<H1  IM — and  she  was  dead — dead  beneath  my 
hand* ! 


CHAPTER    VI. 

I  breathed  not — I  lived  not  for  a  minute. 
My  senses  were  gone — my  eyes  were  in  the 
nir,  in  the  water,  in  the  woods,  but  I  dared 
not  turn  them,  lor  an  instant,  to  the  still  im 
ploring  glance  of  that  now  fixed  and  terrifying 
look  of  appeal.  Still  it  pursued  me,  and  I 
was  forecd  to  sec — it  was  impossible  that  I 
could  turn  from  the  horrible  expression — the 
dreadful  glare,  which  shot  from  them  through 
every  muscle  of  my  frame.  The  trees  were 
hung  with  eyes  that  depended  from  them 
like,  leaves.  Eyes  looked  at  me  from  the 
water  that  gushed  by  us ;  and,  as  in  a  night 
of  many  stars,  the  heavens  seemed  cluster- 


68  MARTIN    FABER. 

ing  with  gazing  thousands,  all  bent  down  ter 
rifically  upon  me.  I  started  to  my  feet  in 
desperation  ;  and  by  a  stern  impulse  I  could 
not  withstand,  I  pronounced  audibly  the  name 
of  my  crime. 

"  Murder  !" 

Ten  thousand  echoes  gave  me  back  the 
sound.  Tongues  spoke  it  in  every  tree,  and 
roused  into  something  like  demoniac  defi 
ance,  I  again  shouted  it  back  to  them  with 
the  energies  of  a  Stentor — then  leaned  eager 
ly  forth  to  hear  the  replication.  But  this 
mood  lasted  not  long.  I  was  a  murderer  !  I 
whispered  it,  as  if  in  tenor,  to  myself.  I  de 
sired  some  assurance  of  the  truth. 

"  I  am  a  murderer  !M 

Spoken,  however  low,  it  still  had  its  echo. 


MARTI  N    F  A  D  F,  U .  69 

u  Murderer!'' — was  the  response  of  ihe  trees, 
which  had  now  tongues,  as  well  as  eyes. 
The.  agony  grew  intolerable,  and  a  lethargic 
stupor  came  to  my  aid.  I  approached  the 
corpse  of  my  victim.  Resolutely  I  approach 
ed  it.  How  different  was  the  aspect  which 
her  features  now  bore.  She  looked  forth  all 
her  sweetness,  and  there  was  something — so 
I  fancied — like  forgiveness  on  her  lips.  Was 
it  I  that  had  dcfded  so  pure  an  image — was  it 
my  hand,  that,  penetrating  the  sanctuary  of 
life,  had  stolen  the  sacred  fire  from  the  altar? 
Oh,  strange  !  that  man  should  destroy  the 
beauty  which  charms — the  life  that  cheers 

and  gladdens — the  affection  which  won  and 

> 
nourishes  him. 

Deep  in  the  centre  of  that  forest  t  ood  an 

ancient    rock.      It  was  little  known   to  the 

7* 


70  MARTIN    FABER. 

neighborhood,  and  its  discouraging  aspect  and 
rude  and  difficult  access  had  preserved  it 
from  frequent  intrusion.  I,  however,  whom 
no  sterility  could  at  any  time  deter,  had 
explored  its  recesses,  and  it  now  suggested 
itself  to  rny  mind,  as  the  place  most  calcula 
ted  to  keep  the  secret  of  my  crime.  A  large 
natural  cavity  in  one  of  its  sides,  difficult  of 
approach,  and  inscrutable  to  research,  seem 
ed  to  present  a  natural  tomb,  and  the  sugges 
tion  was  immediately  seized  upon.  I  took 
her  in  my  arms — I  pressed  her  to  my  heart — 
but  in  that  pressure  I  maddened.  I  had  not 
yet  destroyed,  in  her  death,  the  distinct  prin 
ciple  of  life  which  she  carried  within  her.  I 
felt  the  slight  but  certain  motion  of  her  child 
— of  my  child — struggling  as  it  were  for  free 
dom.  I  closed  my  eyes — I  suppressed  the 


MARTIN  FADER.  71 

horrible  thoughts  which  were  crowding  upon 
my  brain,  and  hurrying  on  my  way,  sought  out 
the  cavity  assigned  for  her  repose.  But  a 
single  plunge,  and  she  was  gone  from  sight, 
from  reach.  The  rock  was  silent  as  the  grave 
— it  had  no  echoes — for,  at  that  place  and  mo 
ment,  I  had  no  speech. 

Will  it  be  brlieved,  the  stride  I  had  taken  in 
crime,  contributed  largely  to  the  sense  of  my 
own  importance.  I  had  never  before  doubted 
my  capacity  for  evil— but  I  now  felt — for  I 
had  realized — I  had  exercised — this  capacity. 
There  is  something  elevating — something  at 
tractive  to  the  human  brute,  in  being  a  des 
troyer.  It  was  PO  with  me.  There  was  an 
increased  vigor  in  my  frame — there  was  new 
strength  and  elasticity  in  my  tread — I  feel  as 
sured  that  there  was  a  loftier,  a  manlier  expres- 


72  MARTIN    FABER. 

sion  in  my  look  and  manner.     But,  all  was 
not  so  in  my  thought.      There    every  thing 
was  in  uproar.     There  was  a  strange  incohe 
rence,  an  insane  recklessness  about  my  heart, 
where,  if  I  may  so  phrase  it,  the  spirit  seem 
ed  prone  to  wandering  about   precipices  and 
places  of  dread  and  danger.     I  kept  continual 
ly  repeating  to  mysdf,  the  name  of  my  crime. 
T  caught  myself  muttering  over  and  over  the 
word  "  Murder,"  and  thai,   too,    coupled  with 
.y      my  own   name.     "  Murderer,"   and   **  Martin 
Faber,"  seemed  ever  to  my  imagination  the 
burden  of  a  melody  ;  and  its  music,  laden  with 
never  ceasing  echoes,  heard  by  my  own  ears, 
was  forever  on  my  own  lips. 


(Ml  A  1'TKR     VII. 

I    left    the    rock,   slowly    and    frequently 
looking  behind  me.     Sometimes  my  fancies 
confirmed  to  my  sight  the  phantom  of  the  mur 
dered  girl,   issuing  from  the  gaping  aperture, 
and  with  waving  arms,  threatening  and  denoun 
cing  me.     But  I  sternly  put  down  these  weak 
intruders.     Though  the  first  crime,  of  so  deep 
a  dye,  which  I  had  ever  committed,  I  felt  that 
the   thoughts  and  feelings  which  came  with 
the  act,  had  been  long  familiar  to  my  mind. 
The  professional  assassin   could   hardly  look 
upon  his  last  murder,  with  more  composure, 
than  I  now  surveyed  the  circumstances  of  my 
first.     I  was  indeed  a  veteran,  and  hi  a  past 


74  MARTIN    FABEK. 

condition  of  society,  I  should  have  been  a  he 
ro — the  savior  or  the  destroyer  of  a  nation. 

To  be  precipitate,  was  to  be  weak  ;  so 
thought  I  even  in  that  moment  of  fearful  cir 
cumstances.  I  went  back  with  all  possible 
composure  to  the  spot  in  which  the  crime  had 
been  committed.  I  examined  ihe  spot  earn- 
fully — took  with  my  eye  •  the  bearing  and  dis 
tances  of  all  the  surrounding  objects  in  their  • 
connexion  with  the  immediate  spot  on  which 
the  deed  had  been  done.  I»i  this  examina 
tion,  I  found  the  pocket  handkerchief  of  Em 
ily,  with  her  name  written  in  Indian  ink  upon 
it.  I  carefully  cut  it  into  shreds,  dividing 
each  particular  letter,  with  my  p<  n-knife,  and 
distributing  the  several  pieces  at  Ao\\r  inter 
vals  upon  the  winds.  \\  here  our  fee*  togeth 
er  had  pressed  the  sands,  with  a  handful  of 


MARTIN   FAIU:K.  75 

bnifh,  I  obliterated  the  traces  ;  and  in  the  pcr- 
formancc  of  tins  task,  J  drew  olV  my  own 
shoes,  leaving,  onlv,  as  I  proceeded,  the  im- 
pression  of  a  naked  foot.  While  thus  cnga 
ged,  I  perceived  for  the  first  time,  that  I  had 
lost  a  rich,  and  large  cameo,  from  my  bosom. 
The  loss  gave  me  no  little  concern,  for,  apart 
from  the  fact  of  its  being  generally  known  for 
mine,  the  initials  of  my  name  were  engraven 
on  the  gold  setting.  How  and  where  had  it 
been  lost.  This  was  all  important,  and  with 
indefatigable  industry,  I  examined  the  grass 
and  every  spot  of  ground  which  I  had  gone 
over  in  the  recent  events.  Bi:'  in  vain— it  was 
not  to  be  found,  and  with  a  feeling  of  uneasi 
ness—not  to  describe  my  anxiety  by  a  stronger 
epithet — I  proceeded  on  my  way  home. 
The  poverty  of  Emily's  family  ;  the  insulat- 


75  MARTIN    FADER. 

cd  position  which  they  held  in  society  ;  their 
inability  to  press  an  inquiry — were  all  so  many 
safeguards  and  securities  in  my  favor.     There 
was  some   little  stir,  it  is  true — but  I  had  so 
arranged  matters   that  I  passed  unsuspected. 
The  inquiry  was  confined    to  the  particular 
part  of  country  in  which  she  resided — a  lone 
ly  and  almost  uninhabited  region — and,  but  a 
distant  rumor  of  the  crime  reached  our  village 
— in  which,  the  connexion  existing  between  us 
was  almost   entirely  unknown.     The  family 
had  but  few  claims  upon  society,  and  but  lit 
tle  interest  was   excited  by   their  loss.     In  a 
little   while  all    inquiry   ceased ;  and   with  a 
.  random  and  general  conclusion  that  she  had 
fallen  into  the  river,  the  thought  of  Emily  An 
drews  gradually  passed  from  the  memories  of 
those  who  had  known  her. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

The  night  came,  appointed  for  my  marriage 
with  the  beautiful  and  wealthy  Constance 
Claibornc.  Attended  by  William  Harding, 
who,  strange  to  say,  in  spite  of  the  manifest 
and  radical  differences  of  character  existing 
between  us,  was  yet  my  principal  companion, 
I  was  punctual  to  the  hour  of  appointment. 
Every  preparation  had  been  made  by  which 
the  ceremony  should  be  attractive.  A  large 
company  had  been  assembled.  Lights  in  pro 
fusion — rich  dresses — gayly  dressed  and  dec 
orated  apartments,  and  the  most  various  mu 
sic,  indicated  the  spirit  of  joy  and  perfect 

harmony  with  which  our  mutual  families  con- 

8 


78  MARTIN    FADE  K. 

template J  our  union.  I  have  already  said, 
the  bride  was  beautiful.  Words  cannot 
convey  an  idea  of  her  beauty.  She  was 
emphatically  a  tiling  of  light  and  love — 

"Which  scon,  becomes  a  part  of  sight." 

In  grace,  one  knew  not  with  what,  save  her 
self,  to  institute  a  comparison.  In  expres 
sion,  there  were  volumes  of  romantic,  and  in 
teresting  poetry,  embodied  in  each  feature  of 
her  face ;  and  the  steel  of  my  affections,  stern 
as  it  was,  wherever  she  turned,  even  as  the  du 
tiful  needle  to  the  pole,  turned  intuitively 
along  with  her.  Such  was  the  maiden, — so 
much  after  the  make  and  mo'.ild  of  heaven, 
whom  a  cruel  destiny  was  about  to  link  with 
one  formed  in  spirit  after  the  fashion  of  hell. 


MARTIN    FADER.  79 

The  ceremony  was  begun.  We  stood  up 
with  linked  hands  at  the  altar.  The  priest 
went  on  \vilh  his  formula.  The  bride's  hand 
trembled  in  mine,  and  her  ryes  were  commcr- 
<  ing  OI1ly  with  the  richly  carpeted  floor.  I 
was  about  to  answer  the  question  which 
.should  have  made  us  one,  when  a  cold  wind 
seemed  to  encircle  my  body.  My  bones 
were  numbed,  and  a  freezing  chill  went 
through  my  whole  system.  My  tongue  re 
fused  its  office,  and,  instinctively,  as  it  were, 
bending  to  the  opposite  quarter  of  the  apart 
ment,  my  eyes  fell  upon  a  guest  whom  none 
had  invited.  There,  palpable  as  when  I  had 
last  seen  her,  stood  the  form  of  Emily  An-  . 
drcws.  A  pale  and  melancholy  picture,  and 
full  of  a  terrible  reproach.  I  was  dumb,  and 
for  a  moment,  had  eyes  only  for  her.  She 


80  MARTIN    FABER. 

was  motionless,  as  when  I  had  borne  her  to 
the  unhallowed  grave  in  which  she  did  not 
rest.     I  felt  that  all  eyes  were  upon  me — the 
bride's  hand  was  slowly  withdrawn  from  mine, 
and  that  motion  restored  me.    Mine  were  ter 
rible  energies.     I  seized   her   hand  with    a 
strong  effort,  and  with  a  voice  of  the  sternest 
emphasis,  my  eye  firmly  fixed  upon  the   ob 
trusive  phantom,  I  gave  the  required  affirma 
tive.     With  the  word,  the  figure  was  gone. — 
I  had  conquered.    You  will  tell  me,  as  philoso 
phers  have  long  since  told  us,  that  this  was 
all  the  work   of  imagination — a  diseased  and 

O 

excited  fancy,  and  in  this  you  are  probably 
right.  But  what  of  that  ?  Is  it  less  a  matter 
of  supernatural  contrivance,  that  one's  own 
sphit  should  be  made  to  conjure  up  the  spec 
tres  which  haunt  and  harrow  it,  than  that  the 


MARTIN     FADE  R.  81 

dead  should  actually  tbe  made  to  embody 
themselves,  as  in  life,  for  the  same  providence7 
The  warning  sound  that  chatters  in  my  ear 
of  approaching  death  may  be,  in  fact,  umitter- 
ed ;  but  if  my  spirit,  by  an  overruling  fate,  is 
calculated  for  the  inception  of  such  a  sound, 
shal'  \ve  hold  it  as  less  the  work  of  a  supe 
rior  agency  ?  Is  it  less  an  omen  for  that  ? 

This  was  not  all.  At  midnight,  as  I  ap 
proached  my  chamber,  the  same  ghastly 
spectre  stood  at  the  door  as  if  to  gunrd  it 
airainst  my  e  it  ranee.  For  a  moment  I  paus 
ed  and  faltered  ;  but  thought  came  to  my  re 
lief.  1  knew  that  the  energies  of  sou),  im 
mortal  and  from  the  highest  as  they  arc, 
were  paramount,  and  I  advanced.  I  stretched 
forth  my  hand  to  the  key,  and  all  was  vacan 
cy  again  before  me.  If  my  fancies  conceiv- 
8* 


S2  MARTIN    FADER. 

cd  the  ghost,  my  own  energies  were  adequate 
to  .  '  control.  In  this  I  had  achieved  a  new 
conquest,  and  my  pride  was  proportionately 
increased  and  strengthened.  I  was  thus  taught 
how  much  was  in  my  own  power,  in  making 
even  destiny  subservient  to  my  will  ! 


CHAPTER   IX. 

I  need  not  say  that  no  happiness  awaited 
rne  in  my  marriage.  Still  less  is  it  necessary 
that  I  should  tell  you  of  the  small  amount  of 
happiness  that  tell  to  the  lot  of  my  wife.  I 
did  not  ill-treat  her — that  is  to  say,  I  employed 
neither  blows  nor  violence;  but  I  was  a 
wretched  discontent,  and  when  I  say  this  I 
have  said  all.  She  suffered  with  patience, 
however,  and  I  sometimes  found  it  impossi 
ble,  and  always  difficult,  to  drive  her  beyond 
the  boundary  of  yielding  and  forgiving  humi 
lity.  She  loved  me  not  from  the  first,  and 
only  became  my  bride  from  the  absence  of 
sufficient  firmness  of  character,  to  resist  the 


84  MARTIN    FADE  It. 

command.  The  discovery  of  this  fact,  which 
I  soon  made,  offended  my  pride.  1  did  not 
distrust,  however — I  hated  her ;  and,  with  a 
strange  perversity  of  character,  which,  let  phi 
losophers  account  for  as  they  may — when  I 
found  that  she  could  love,  and  that  feelings 
were  engendered  in  her  bo?om  for  another, 
hostile  to  her  affection  for  me,  though  not  at 
variance  with  her  duties — I  encouraged  their 
growth.  I  nursed  their  dcvelopement.  I  stim 
ulated  their  exercise;  and  strove,  woiil •!  you 
believe  it,  to  make  her  the  instrument  of  my  own 
dishonor.  .But  her  sense  of  pride  and  propri 
ety  was  greater  than  mine.  Though  conscious 
that  her  heart  was  another's,  she  unerringly  held 
her  faith  to  her  husband,  and  my  anger  and  dis- 
'  like  were  exaggerated,  when  I  discovered  that 
my  vice,  even  when  allied  to  and  assisted  by 


MARTIN    FADER.  85 

her  own  feelings,  could  gain  no  ascendancy 
over  her  virtue. 

She  was  won  by  the  gentleness,  the  talent, 
the  high  character  of  my  old  friend,  William 
Harding.     She  listened  to  his  language  with 
unrcluctant  and  unconcealed  pleasure.     She 
delighted  in  his  society ;  and  with  a  feeling 
which  she  had  never  dared  to  name  to  herself, 
she  gave  him  a  preference,  in  every  thought, 
in  every  emotion  of  her  being.    Nor — boy  as 
he  was — sensitive  and  easily  wrought  upon 
by  respect  and  kindness — was  he  at  all  in 
sensible  to  her  regards.     He  became,  as  an 
acqup.intance,  almost  an  inmate  of  our  house. 
He  was  always  with  us — and  with  the  open 
ness  of  heart  common  to  such  a  character,  he 
unreservedly  Bought  for  the  society  of  Con- 


86  MARTIN    FABER. 

stance.  I  soon  discovered  their  mutual  pro 
pensities,  for,  at  an  early  period,  i  had  learned, 
with  singular  felicity,  to  analyze  character. 
At  first,  and  while  she  was  yet  a  (-harming 
creation  in  my  sight,  and  before  I  had  learned  to 
disregard  and  be  indifferent  to  the  admiration 
which  she  excited  in  others,  this  predilection 
gave  me  not  a  little  concern.  J  was  for  a 
season  the  victim  of  a  jealous  doubt — not  so 
much  the  result  of  a  fear  of  offended  honor, 
as  of  a  weak  pride  and  vanity,  that  was  vexed 
at  the  preference  given  to  him  over  myself,  in 
the  bosotn  of  one,  I  strove  to  have  exclusively 
my  own.  But  this  feeling  went  with  the  sea 
son.  I  grew  indifferent  at  first,  then  pleased 
with  their  association,  and  finally  it  became 
an  object  wilh  me,  no  to  encour/me  it,  as  to 


,/  »•„ 

MARTIN    FA  BE  II.  &7 

give  me  a  sufllciont  excuse  and  opportunity 
for  a  dreadful  and  overwhelming  revenge. 
But  they  were  both  honest — honest  as  I  had 
never  been — as  I  never  expected  man  or  wo 
man  to  have  been!  Twining  and  intcrminjr- 

<5  O 

linir,  hourly  in  spirit,  the  most  jealous  scru 
tiny,  the  most  bitter  hate  and  hostility,  could 
never  detect  the  slightest  feature  of  impropri 
ety  in  their  conduct.  Many  were  the  modes 
which  I  chose  to  stimulate  their  passions — to 
influence  their  desires — to  put  their  spirits 
into  llame ;  and  many  were  the  opportunities 
with  which  I  sought,  in  hurrying  them  to 
crime,  to  provide  myself  with  victims.  They 
went  through  the  ordeal  like  angels — without 
one  speck  of  earth ;  and  pining  with  sup 
pressed  and  strong  affections,  I  beheld  the 


88  MARTIN    FABER. 

cheek  of  Constance  grow  paler,  day  by  day, 
and  saw,  at  every  visit— the  increased  wild- 
ness  of  look — the  still  exaggerated  emotions 
struggling  for  utterance  and  life,  in  the  bosom 
of  the  young  and  susceptible  Harding. 


CHAPTER   X. 

Sonic  months  had  now  elapsed  since  our 
marriage  ;  and  in  this  lime,  my  house  and 
young  \vifc  had  lost  most  of  their  attractions. 
My  favorite  habit,  and  one  .which  contributed 
not  a  little  to  my  mood  of  sternness,  was  to 
take  long  walks  into  the  neighboring  country  ; 
and  with  my  fowling-piece  on  my  shoulder  as 
apologetic  for  my  idle  wanderings,  the  neigh 
boring  forests  for  ten  or  fifteen  miles  round, 
soon  became  familiar  to  my  survey.  Some 
times,  on  these  occasions,  Harding  would  be 
come  my  companion  ;  and  as  he  was  highly 
contemplative  in  character,  his  presence  did 

not  at  all  interfere  with  the  gloominess  of  my 
9 


90  MARTIN    FABER. 

mood.  It  was  on  one  of  these  occasions, 
while  traversing  a  dense  wood,  thickly  sown 
with  undergrowth,  and  penetrable  with  diffi 
culty,  that  we  sat  down  together  upon  the 
trunk  of  a  fallen  tree,  and  fell  into  conversa 
tion.  Our  dialogue  was  prompted  by  the  cir 
cumstances  of  our  situation,  and  unconscious 
ly  I  remarked — 

"  Harding,  this  is  just  such  a  spot,  which 
one  would  choose  in  which  to  commit  a  mur 
der  I" 

"  Horrible  !"  was  his  reply,  "  what  could 
put  such  a  thought  into  your  head  ?  This,  is 
just  the  spot  now  which  I  should  choose  for 
the  inception  of  a  divine  porm.  The  awful 
stillness — the  solemn  gloom — the  singular  and 
sweet  monotony  of  sound,  coming  from  the 
breeze  through  the  bending  tree  tops,  all 


MARTIN    FA1JER.  Ul 

seem  well  calculated  to  beget  fine  thoughts, — 
daring  fancies — bold  and  striking  emotions." 

"  You  talk  of  taking  life,  as  if  it  were  the 
crowning  crime — it  appears  to  me  an  error  of 
society  l.y  which  the  existence  of  a  being,  lim 
ited  to  a  duiation  of  years,  is  invested  with  so 
much  importance.  A  few  years  lopt  from  the 
life  of  an  individual  is  certainly  no  such  loss, 
shortening  as  it  must,  so  many  of  his  cares 
and  troubles ;  an  J  the  true  standard  by  which 
we  should  determine  upon  a  deed,  is  the  amount 
of  good  or  evil  which  it  may  confer  upon  the 
person  or  persons  immediately  interested." 

"  That  is  not  the  standard,"  was  his  reply — 
"  since  that  would  be  making  a  reference  to 
varying  and  improper  tribunals,  to  determine 
upon  principles  which  should  be  even  and  im 
mutable.  But,  even  by  such  a  standard, 


92  MARTIN    F  ABE  R. 

Martin,  it  would  be  a  crime  of  the  most  hor 
rible  complexion,  for,  leave  the  choice  to  the 
one  you  seek  to  murder,  and  he  will  submit, 
in  most  cases,  to  the  loss  of  all  his  worldly 
possessions,  and  even  of  his  liberty,  in  prefer 
ence  to  the  loss  of  life." 

"  What  would  you  say,  William  if  you 
knew  I  had  been  guilty  of  this  crime  T 

"  Say  !"  he  exclaimed,  as  his  eyes  shot 
forth  an  expression  of  the  deepest  horror — 
"  say  ! — I  could  say  nothing — I  could  never 
look  upon  you  again/1 

I  looked  at  him  with  close  attention  for  a 
moment,  then,  placing  my  hands  upon  his 
shoulder  with  a  deliberation  which  was  signifi 
cant  of  the  deepest  madness,  I  spoke : 

"  Look — you  shall  look  upon  me  again.     T 


MARTIN    FADER.  9,'J 

have  been  guilty  of  this  same  crime  of  taking 
life.     I  have  been,  and  am,  a  murderer." 

lie  sprung  upon  his  feet  with  undisguised 
horror.  His  face  was  ashen  pale — his  lips 
were  parted  in  affright ;  and  while  I  held  one 
of  his  hands,  the  other  involuntarily  was  pass 
ed  over,  entirely  concealing  his  eyes.  What 
prompted  me  to  the  narration  I  know  not.  I 
could  not  resist  the  impulse — I  was  compelled 
to  speak.  It  was  my  fate.  I  described  my  ^ 
crime — I  dwelt  upon  all  its  particulars  ;  but 
with  a  caution,  strangely  inconsistent  with  the 
open  confidence  I  had  manifested,  I  changed 
the  name  of  the  victim — I  varied  the  period, 
and  falsified,  in  my  narrative,  all  the  localities 
of  the  crime  ;  concluding  with  describing  her 
place  of  burial  beneath  a  tree,  in  a  certain 
9* 


01  MARTIN    FADER. 

ground  which  was  immediately  contiguous, 
and  well  known  to  us  both. 

He  heard  me  out  with  wonder  and  aston 
ishment.  His  terror  shook  his  frame  as  with 
an  ague,  and  at  the  conclusion  he  tried  to 
laugh,  and  his  teeth  chattered  in  the  effort. 

"  It  is  but  a  story,"  he  said  chokingly,  "  a  hor 
rible  story,  Martin,  and  why  do  you  tell  it  me? 
I  almost  thought  it  true  from  the  earnest  man 
ner  in  which  you  narrated  it." 

"  It  is  true,  William — true  as  you  now 
stand  -before  me.  You  doubt,  I  will  swear — M 

"  Oh,  swear  not — I  would  rather  not  believe 
you — say  no  more,  I  pray  you — tell  me  no 
more." 

With  a  studied  desperation — a  malignant 
pleasure,  increasing  in  due  proportion  with  the 
degree  of  mental  torture  which  he  appeared 


\ 


MARTIN    FADER.  95 

to  undergo,  I  went  again  over  the  whole  story 
as  I  had  before  told  it — taking  care  that  my 
description  of  each  particular  should  be  made 
as  vivid  as  the  solemn  and  bold  truth  ccr- 
Jainly  made  it. 

"  I  am  a  murderer  !  William  Harding  !'' 

'*  May  Cod  forgive  you,  Martin — but  why 
have  you  told  me  this — would  you  murder 
me,  Martin  ?  Have  I  done  any  thing  to  oflcnd 
you  ?" 

His  excessive  nervousness,  at  length,  grew 
painful,  even  to  myself.  "  Nay,  fear  not,  1 
would  not  harm  you,  William,  for  the  world. 
I  would  rather  serve  and  save  you.  But  keep 
my  secret — I  have  told  it  you  in  confidence, 
and  you  will  not  betray  me." 

"  Horrible  confidence  P  was  his  only  reply, 
as  we  took  our  way  from  the  forest. 


CHAPTER    XT. 

Several  days  had  passed  since  thin  confer 
ence,  and,  contrary  to  his  custom,  Harding,  in 
all  this  time,  had  kept  out  of  my  sight.  His 
absence  was  felt  by  both  Constance  and  my 
self,  lie  had  been,  of  late,  almost  the  only 
companion  known  to  either  of  us.  "Why  I. 
liked  him  I  knew  not.  His  virtues  were 
many,  and  virtues  were,  at  no  time,  a  subject 
of  my  admiration.  That  he  was  loved  by 
Constance,  I  had  no  question  ;  that  he  loved 
her  I  felt  equally  certain — but  it  was  the  pas 
sion  of  an  angel  on  the  part  of  both  ;  and  it 
may  be  that  knowing  the  torture  which  it 
brought  with  it  to  both  of  them,  my  malignant 


MARTIN    FAHEU,  97 

spirit  found  pleasure  in  bringing  them  togeth- 
rr.  It  was  not  a  charitable  mood,  I  am  satis 
fied,  that  made,  mo  solicitous  that  he  should 
be  as  much  as  possible  an  inmate  of  my 
dwelling. 

lie  came  at  last,  and  I  was  struck  with  bis 
appearance.  The  . hange  for  the  worse  was 
dreadfully  obvious.  lie  looked  like  one,  who 
had  been  for  many  nights  without  sleep.  He 
was  pale,  nervous  in  the  last  degree,  and  aw 
fully  haggard. 

"  I  am  miserable,"  said  he,  "  since  you 
breathed  that  accursed  story  in  my  cars. 
Tell  me,  I  conjure  you,  Martin,  as  you  value 
my  quiet,  that  you  but  jested  with  me — that 
the  whole  affair  Was  but  a  fabrication — a 
fetch  of  the  nightmare — a  mere  vision  of  the 
fancy." 


08  MARTIN    FADER. 

Will  it  be  believed,  that  having  thus  an  op 
portunity,  even  then,  of  undoing  the  impression 
I  had  created,  I  took  no  advantage  of  it.  I 
persisted  in  the  story — I  was  impelled  to  do 
so,  and  could  not  forbear.  There  was  an  im 
pulse  that  mastered  the  will — that  defied  the 
cooler  judgment — that  led  me  waywardly,  as 
it  thought  proper.  You  have  read  that  strange 
poem  of  Coleridge,  in  which  the  "  Auncicnt 
Marincrc"  is  made,  whether  he  will  or  no,  and 
in  spite  of  every  obstacle,  to  thrust  his  terrible 
narrative  into  the  ear's  of  the  unwilling  listener. 
It  was  so  with  me ;  but  though  1  was  thus 
compelled  to  denounce  my  crime,  the  will  had 
still  some  exercise,  and  I  made  use  of  it  for  my 
security.  I  changed  the  particulars  so  mate 
rially  from  the  facts,  as  they  rra'ly  were,  that 
inquiry  must  only  have  resulted  in  my  acquit- 


MARTIN    FADER.  99 

tal.     The  state  of  mind  under  which  Harding 

O 

labored,  was  of  melancholy  consequence,  to 
him,  at  least,  if  not  to  me.  Sad  and  disap 
pointed,  he  left  me  without  a  word,  and  for 
some  days  more  I  saw  him  not.  At  length  he 
came  to  me  looking  worse  than  ever. 

"  I  shall  go  mad,  Fabcr,  with  this  infernal 
secret.  It  keeps  me  awake  all  night.  It  fills 
my  chamber  with  spectres.  I  am  haunted 
with  the  presence  of  the  girl,  you  accuse  your 
self  of  having  murdered. 

*'  Go  to — will  you  be  a  child  all  your  life. 
"Why  should  she  haunt  you  ? — it  is  not  you 
who  have  murdered  her — she  does  not  trouble 
me. 

"  Nevertheless,  she  does.  She  calls  upon 
me  to  bring  you  to  justice.  1  awake  and  she 
is  muttering  in  my  cars.  She  implores — she 


100  MARTIN    FABER. 

threatens — she  stands  by  my  bed  side  in  the 
darkness — she  shakes  the  curtains — I  hear 
the  rustling  of  her  garments — I  hear  her 
word*;  and  when  T  seek  to  sleep,  her  cries 
of"  Murder, !  Murder  !  Murder !"  arc  shouted, 
and  ring  through  all  my  senses,  as  the  sound 
of  a  sullen,  swinging  bell  in  the  wilderness. 
Save  me,  Martin — from  this  vision — save  me 
from  the  consequence  of  your  own  imprudence 
in  telling  me  this  story.  Assure  me  that  it  is 
untrue,  or  I  feel  that  I  shall  be  unable  to  keep 
the  secret.  It  is  like  a  millstone  around  my 
neck — it  makes  a  hell  within  mv  heart." 

J 

"  What !  and  would  you  betray  me — would 
you  bring  me  to  punishment,  for  an  offence 
which  I  have  told  you  was  involuntary,  and 
which  I  unconsciously  committed  ?  Your 
sense  of  honor,  upurt  from  your  feeling  of 


MARTIN    FADER.  101 

friendship,  alone,  should  be  sufficient  to  res 
train  you.  I  cannot  believe  that  you  would 
violate  your  pledge — that  you  can  betray 
the  confidence  reposed  in  you." 

Silenced,  but  not  satisfied,  and  far  more 
miserable  than  ever,  the  poor  youth,  whose 
nerves  were  daily  become  more  and  more  un 
steady  and  sensitive  under  these  exciting  in 
fluences,  went  away  ; — but  the  next  day,  he 
can.e  again — his  look  was  fixed  and  resolute, 
and  an  air  of  desperate  decision  marked  eve 
ry  feature. 

"I  am  about  to  go  to  the  Justice,  Martin,  to 
reveal  all  this  story,  precisely  as  you  have 
told  it  to  me — I  cannot  bear  a  continuance  of 
life,  haunted  as  I  have  been,  by  innumerable 
terrors,  ever  srince  I  heard  it.  But  last  night, 

1  heard  the  distinct  denunciations  of  the  mur- 
10 


102  MARTIN    FA3ER. 

dcrcd  girl,  couched  in  the  strongest  language, 
emphatically  uttered  in  my  ears.  The  whole 
scene  was  before  me,  and  the  horrors  of  the 
damned,  could  not  exceed  those  which  encom 
passed  my  spirit.  I  lied  from  the  chamber — 
from  the  house.  In  the  woods  I  have  passed 
the  whole  niuht  in  the  deepest  prayer.  My 
determination  is  the  result  of  the  soundest 
conviction  of  its  necessity.  I  can  keep  your 
secret  no  longer." 

T  paused  for  a  moment,  and  having  prepar 
ed  myself  for  all  difficulties  by  a  considera 
tion  of  all  the  circumstances,  I  simply  bade 
him — "Go  then — if  he  was  determined  upon 
the  betrayal  of  his  friend  and  the  forfeiture  of 
his  honor." 

"Reproach  me  not  thus,  Martin" — was  his 
reply.  "Forgive  me,  but  I  must  do  so.  1 


MARTIN    FABER.  103 

must,  cither  disclose  all  or  commit  self-mur- 
drr.  I  cannot  keep  within  my  bosom  that 
which  makes  it  an  ./Etna — which  keeps  it  for 
ever  in  flame  and  explosion.  Forgive — for 
give  me  :'•'  Thus  speaking,  he  rushed  from 
my  presence. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

I  was  cited  before  the  Justice,  and  the  tes 
timony  of  William  Harding  delivered  with 
the  most  circumstantial  minuteness,  was  taken 
down  in  my  presence.  Never  did  I  see  a 
more  striking  instance  of  conscience  strug 
gling  with  feeling- — never  had  I  conceived  of 
so  complete  a  conquest  of  one  over  the  other. 
I  denied  all.  I  denied  that  I  had  ever  made 
him  such  a  statement — that  we  had  ever 
had  any  such  conversation  ;  and  with  the  cool 
ness  and  composure  of  veteran  crime,  won 
dered  at  the  marvellous  insanity  of  his  repre 
sentations,  lie  was  dumb,  he  looked  abso 
lutely  terrified.  Of  course,  however,  in  such 


MARTIN   FAUEK.  105 

an  examination,  my  own  statements  were  una 
vailing  ;  and  his  wore  to  be  sustained  by  a 
reference  lo  the  Idealities  and  such  of  the  de 
tails  which  he  had  made,  as  might  ostensibly 
contribute  to  its  sustenance  or  overthrow. 
Search  was  made  under  the  tree  where  my 
victim  was  alledgcd  to  have  been  buried. 
The  earth  appeared  never  to  have  been  dis 
turbed  from  the  creation — upon  digging,  noth 
ing  was  found.  So,  with  all  other  particulars. 
Ilardinii's  representations  were  confuted.  He 
was  regarded  by  all  as  a  malignant  wretch, 
who  envied  the  felicity,  and  sought  to  sting 
the  hand  of  him  who  had  cherished  and  be 
friended  him.  ft£he  public  regard  fell  away 
from  him,  and  he  was  universally  avoided.  I 
affected  to  consider  him  the  victim  of  momen 
tary  hallucination,  and  the  Christian  charity 
10* 


106  MARTIN    k'lBER. 

thus  manifested,  became  the  admiration  of  all. 
I  almost  dreaded  that  I  should  be  deified — 
made  a  deacon  in  life,  and  a  saint  after  death. 
Poor  Harding  sunk  silently  to  his  den. 
Sensitively  alive  to  public  opinion,  as  well  as 
private  regard,  his  mind  reeled  to  and  fro,  like 
a  storm  troubled  vessel,  beneath  a  shock  so 
terrible  and  unexpected,  lie  had  lived  upon 
the  brea'h  of  fame — he  was  jealous  of  high 
reputation — he  was  tremblingly  alive  to  those 
very  regards  of  the  multitude,  which  were 
now  succeeded  by  their  scorn  and  hisses. 
What  a  blow  had  I  given  him — but  he  was 
not  yet  to  escape  me.  I  suffered  a  day  or 
two  to  elapse,  and  then  sought  him  out  in  his 
chamber.  I  entered,  and  looked  upon  him 
for  several  minutes  unobserved.  II  is  head 
was  between  his  hands,  and  his  chin  rested 


MARTIN    FADER.  107 

upon  the  table.  I  lis  air  was  that  of  the  most 
\voful  abandon.  The  nature  of  his  feelings 
might  be  inferred,  along  with  his  personal  ap 
pearance,  from  the  nature  of  the  companions 
beside,  and  the  general  condition  of  things 
around  him.  One  boot  was  thrown  off,  and 
lay  upon  the  floor — the  other,  as  if  he  had 
grown  incapable  of  further  effort,  was  per 
mitted  to  remain  upon  his  foot.  The  mirror 
lay  in  the  smallest  pieces  about  the  room ; 
the  contemplation  of  his  own  features,  blast 
ed  as  they  had  been  with  the  shame  of  his 
situation,  having  prompted  him,  as  he  came 
from  the  place  of  trial,  to  dash  his  hand  through 
it.  On  the  table,  and  on  each  side  of  him,  lay 
— strangely  associated — his  bible  and  his  pis 
tols.  He  had  been  about  to  refer  to  one  or  to 
the  other  of  them  for  consolation.  It  was  in 


109  MARTIN    FABKR. 

this  siluation,  that  I  found  him  out.  J  brought 
increased  tortures — while  the  people,  who 
saw  and  wondered,  gave  me  credit  for  Chris 
tian  benevolence.  How  many  virtues  would 
put  on  the  most  atrocious  features,  could 
their  true  motives  be  pursued  through  the 
hive  of  venomous  purposes  that  so  frequently 
swarm  and  occupy  'he  secret  cells  and  cav 
erns  of  the  human  heart ! 

He  saw  me  at  length,  and,  as  if  the  associa 
tions  which  my  presence  had  called  up,  wen? 
too  terrible  for  contemplation,  ho  buried  his 

V; 

head  in  his  hands,  and  airain  thrust  them  on 
the  table.  As  I  approached,  however,  he 
started  from  this  position — a  mood  entirely 
new,  appeared  to  sei/e  upon  him,  and  snatch 
ing  the  pistol  which  lay  before  him  upon  the 
table,  he  rushed  to  meet  me.  He  placed  it 


MARTIN    FABER.  109 

upon  my  bosom,  and  deliberately  cocked  it, 
placing  his  finger  at  the  same  moment  upon 
the  trigger.  A  glare  of  hellish  desperation, 
flowed  out  from  his  eyes,  as  with  words  that 
pcomrd  rather  shrieked  than  articulated,  he  cx- 
cla'incd — *'  Aad  what  is  there  that  keeps  me 
from  destroying  you?  "What  should  stay  my 
hand — what  should  interpose  to  protect  you 
from  my  just  revenge — what  should  keep  you 
from  the  retributive  wrath,  which  you  have 
roused  into  fury  ?" 

I  made  no  movement — precipitation,  or  any 
act  or  gesture,  on  my  part,  at  that  moment, 
would  have  been  instant  death.  He  would 
have  felt  his  superiority.  I  maintained  my 
position,  and  without  raising  a  finger,  I  re 
plied  with  the  utmost  deliberation: — 


110  MARTIN    FAUEIl. 

"  What  should  keep  you  from  taking  my 
life  !    What  a  question  !   Would  you  bo  an 
swered  ? — Your  own  fears. — You  know  that  f 
£  would  haunt  you." 

The  pistol  dropped  from  his  hands,  and  he 
trembled  all  over.     I  proceeded. 

"  You  should  have  no  peace — no  moment  of 
repose  secure  from  my  intrusion — no  single 
hour  you  should  call  your  own.  I  should  link 
myself  to  you,  as  Mezentius'  dead,  to  his  con 
demned  and  living  victim.  I  would  come  be 
tween  you  and  your  dearest  joys,  nor  depart 
for  a  solitary  moment  from  a  share  in  all  the 
unavoidable  duties  and  performances  of  life. 
We  should  sit,  side  by  side,  at  the  same  table 
— sleep  in  the  .same  couch, — dwell  in  the  same 
:  dwelling.  Would  you  rise  to  speak  in  the 
council,  I  should  prompt  your  words — I  should 


MARTIN    FAB  ER.  Ill 

your  action.  Would  you  travel,  I  would 
mount  the  box  and  impel  in  the  direction  ot* 
my  c.iprit  e.  Would  you  love,  1  would  figure 
in  your  courtship — no  between  yourself  and 
mistress,  and  assist  in  your  bridal.  Your  own 
wife  should  not  have  one,  half  of  the  commu 
nion  1  should  cnjoyWith  you!'' 

lie  was  paralyzed  with  his  agony. 

"Terrible  man!"  ho  exclaimed,  "What 
would  you  do  with  me  ;  why  am  I  made 
your  victim — why  do  you  persecute  me  ? 
1  have  not  wronged;  I  have  not  sought  to 
wrong  you.  You,  on  the  contrary,  have  de 
stroyed  me,  and  yet  would  pursue  me  further. 
You  have  luvn  my  evil  genius." 

"  1  know  it— 1  deplore  it !" 

"  You  deplore  it  !  Horrible  mockery  !  How 
shall  I  believe  your  speech  after  what  has 


112  MARTIN    FADER. 

happened.     Why  deny  the   story,   yourself 
poured  into  my  ears  as  the  truth." 

"  It  was  the  truth  !" 

"  Yet  you  swore  it  was  false  !" 

"  Life  is  sweet — -life  is  necessary,  if  not  to 
human  joys,  at  least,  to  the  opportunities  of 
human  repentance.  Would  you  have  me  give 
myself  to  an  ignominious  death  upon  the  scaf 
fold — disgracing  my  family,  dishonoring  my 
self,  and  dooming  all  who  shared  in  my  com 
munion  to  a  kindred  dishonor  with  myself  ?*' 

"  Why  then  did  you  tell  me  of  this  crime  ?" 

"  I  could  not  help  it.  The' impulse  was  na 
tive  and  involuntary,  and  I  could  not  disobey 
it.  It  would  not  be  resisted.  It  burned  in 
my  bosom  as  it  has  done  in  yours,  and,  until 
I  had  revealed  it,  I  could  hope  for  no  relief." 


MARTIN    FABER.  113 

"  Dreadful  alternative  !    Hear  me,  Martin 
Fabcr — hear  me  and  pity  me.     You  know  my 
history — you   know  my   hopes — my   preten 
sions — my   ambition.      You    know   that   for 
years,  from  my  boyhood  up,  in  despite  of  po 
verty,  and  the  want  of  friends  and  relatives,  I 
have  been  contending  for  glory — for  a  name.  4 
You  know  that  the  little  world  in  which   we 
live,  had  begun  to  be  friendly  to  my  aspira 
tions—that  they  looked  on  my  progress  with 
sympathy     and     encouragement — that     they 
pointed  to  me  as  one  likely  to  do  them  honor — 
to  confer  a  name  upon  my  country  as  well  as 
upon  myself.     You  know  that  for  years,  in  so 
litude,  and  throughout  the  long  hours  of  the 
dark  and  vvintery  night,  I  have  pursued  my 
solitary  toil  for  these  objects.     That  I  have 

fhrunk  from  the  society  that  has  been  wooing 
11 


114  MARTIN    FADER. 

me — that  I  have  denied  myself  all  the  enjoy 
ments  which  arc  the  life  of  other  men — that  I 
have,  in  short,  been  sacrificing  the  present  for 
the  future  existence  —the  undying  memory  of 
greatness,  which  it  had  been  my  hope,  to  leave 
behind  me.  This  you  knew — this  you  know. 
In  one  hour,  you — without  an  object — to  satis 
fy  a  \vanton  caprice — you  have  overthrown  all 
these  hopes — you  have  made  all  these  labors 
valueless — you  have  destroyed  inc.  Those 
who  loved,  hate  me — those  who  admired,  con 
temn — those  who  praised,  now  curse  and  de 
nounce  me  as  a  wanton  and  malicious  enemy, 
seeking  the  destruction  of  my  Iriend  !  I  am  not 
only  an  exile  from  my  species — I  am  banish- 
ed  from  that  which  has  been  the  life -blood  of 
my  being — the  possession  of  a  goodly,  of  a 
mighty  name !  I  have  no  further  use  in  life." 


MARTIN    FADER.  113 

<c  All  is  true — you  have  said  but  the  truth. 
1  am  conscious  of  it  all." 

"  Oh,  speak  not,  I  conjure  you — I  need  not 
your  assurances  in  my  confirmation.  I  do  not 
nsk  your  voice.  Hear  me  in  what  I  shall  say, 
and  if  you  can,  heal  as  far  as  you  may  Iteal, 
lhc«  wounds  you  have  inflicted." 

*'  Speak  on  !" 

"  I  will  seek  to  reconcile  myself  to  the  con 
dition — to  the  exile  to  which  you  have  driven 
me.  I  will  struggle  to  give  up  the  high  hopes 
which  have  prompted  and  cheered  me,  through 
the  unallcviated  and  unlightcd  labors  of  my 
life — I  will  struggle  to  be — nothing!  All  I  ask 
is  that  you  should  give  me  peace — permit  me 
to  sleep  once  more.  Say  that  you  have  not 
committed  the  crime,  of  which  you  have  ac 
cused  yourself.  Give  me  this  assurance,  and 


116  MARTIN    FABJER. 

free  me  from  this  gibbering  and  always  pre 
sent  spectre,  that,  roused  for  ever  by  my  fan 
cies,  refuses  to  be  gone  !" 

How  easy  to  have  granted  his  request !  How 
impossible,  indeed,  would  it  appear,  to  have 
refused  an  appeal,  urged  under  such  circum 
stances.  But  I  did  refuse — I  reiterated  the 
story  of  my  crime,  as  I  had  uttered  it  before, 
without  any  variation,  and  the  nervously  sus 
ceptible  youth  sunk  down  before  me,  in  des 
pair,  upon  the  floor.  In  a  moment,  however, 
he  arose,  and — a  smile  was  upon  his  lips. 
There  was  a  fearful  energy  in  his  eye,  which 
had  never  marked  it  before,  and  which  it  sur 
prised  me  not  a  little  to  survey.  \Vitha  strong 
effort,  he  approached  me. 

"  I  will  be  no  longer  a  child — I  will  shake  off 
this  fever  of  feeling  which  is  destroying  me. 


MARTIN    FABER.  117 

I  will  conquer  these  fancies — I  will  not  be 
their  slave.  Shall  I  possess  a  mind,  so  soar 
ing  and  absolute,  to  bow  down  to  the  tyrant  of 
my  own  imaginings  ?  I  will  live  for  better 
things.  I  will  make  an  effort!"' 

I  applauded  his  determination,  and  persua 
ded  him  to  iro  with  me,  as  before,  to  my  resi 
dence.     This,  though  good  policy  with  me, 
was  the  height  of  bad  policy  with  him.     The 
world  looked  upon  me  as  the  most  forgiving 
and  foolishly  weak  philanthropist — a  benevo 
lent  creation  of  the  very  finest  water.     The 
readiness  with  which  Harding  again  sought 
my  hospitality,  after  his  charges  against  me, 
was,  of  course,  still  further  in  evidence,  against 
the    honesty    of  his  intentions.  '  They  look 
ed  upon  his  depravity  as  of  the  most  hein 
ous  character,  and  numberless  were  the  warn- 
11* 


118  MARTIN    FABER. 

ings  which  I  hourly  received,  of  the  thousand 
stings  which  the — so-called — serpent  was 
treasuring  up  for  my  bosom.  But,  I  affected 
to  think  differently.  I  put  all  in  his  conduct 
down  to  a  momentary  aberration  of  intellect, 
and  urged  the  beauty  and  propriety  of  Christian 
forgiveness.  Was  I  not  of  a  most  saint-like 
temper  ?  They  thought  so. 


CHAPTER    XT  II. 

It  is  strange,  that,  with  my  extended  and 
perfect  knowledge  of  human  character,  and 
my  great  love  of  mental  and  moral  analysis, 
I  should  have  suffered  myself  to  be  taken  in 
by  these  external  shows  on  the  part  of  my 
victim.  Strange,  that  so  sudden — so  unlock 
ed  for,  an  alteration  from  his  wonted  habit  had 
not  aroused  my  jealousy — my  suspicion  of 
some  hidden  motive.  But,  my  blindness  was 
a  part  of  my  fate,  or,  how  should  it  have  been 
that  a  creature  so  weak,  so  utterly  dependent 
as  Harding  had  ever  been,  should  have  deceiv 
ed  a  spirit  so  lynx-eyed  as  mine.  Led  to  con 
sider  him  loo  greatly  the  victim  of  the  nervous 


120  MARTIN    i-'AUEIl, 

irritability,  by  which,  indeed,  his  every  action 
and  impulse  was  distinguished,  I  had  not  look 
ed  for  the  exercise,  in  his  mind,  of  any  of  thai 
kind  of  energy,  which  would  carry  him  undc- 
viatingly  and  perseveringly  to  the  attainment  of 
any  remote  or  difficult  object,  or  to  the  accom 
plishment  of  a  far  and  foreign  purpose.  1  had 
neglected  entirely  to  allow  for  the  stimulating 

/  properties  of  a  defeat,  to  a  mind  which  had 
only  lived  for  a  single  object.  I  had  refused  to 
count  upon  the  decision  of  character,  which, 

,  might,  by  probability,  arise  in  a  mind,  however 
in  all  other  respects,  variable  and  vascillatintr, 
when  concentrating  itself  upon  the  attainment 
of  a  single  end,  and  that,  too,  of  a  kind,  so  ab 
sorbing,  so  all  impelling  as  the  attainment  of 
fame.  I  did  not  recollect,  that  Harding  had 
himself  acknowledged  the  existence  of  one 


MARTIN,  FABER.  121 

only  passion,  in  his  bosom ;  or,  I  should  have 
seen  that  his  present  change  of  manner,  was  but 
a  thin  veil  disguising  and  concealing  some  ul 
terior  project,  subservient  to  the  leading  pas 
sion  of  his  spirit.  I  failed,  therefore, — fool  that 
I  was — to  perceive  the  occult  design,  which 
of  a  sudden  had  so  completely  altered  all  the 
obvious  characteristics  of  my  companion — his 
habits,  his  temper,  and  his  hopes.  Folly  to 
suppose,  that  with  the  loss  of  public  estima 
tion,  he  would  be  content  with  life  unless  with 
a  desperate  effort  to  regain  his  position.  And 
how  could  he  regain  that  position  ?  How,  but 
by  establishing  my  guilt,  and  his  innocence  of 
all  malevolent  intention.  And  such  was  his 
design.  Assured,  as  he  now  was,  that  I 
was  in  truth  a  criminal — that  I  had  committed 
the  murder  of  which  I  had  accused  myself, 


1 22  M  A  R  T  I  N    F,A  11  E  R . 

\ 

and  that  I  had  only  so  varied  the  statement  of 
its  particulars  as  to  mislead  and  defeat  enquiry 
— and  looking  forward  to  the  one  single  ob 
ject, — that  of  restoring  himself  to  the  popular 
regards  of  which  I  had  deprived  him — ho  \va:; 
determined,  of  himself,  to  establish  my  crime — 
to  trace  the  story  from  the  very  imperfect  data 
I  had  myself  given  him,  and  by  perpetual  as 
sociations  with  myself,  and  a  close  examina 
tion  into  my  moral  make,  to  find  out  the  ma 
terials  of  evidence  which  should  substantiate 
his  now  defeated  accusations.  How  blind  was 
.1  not  to  have  perceived  bin  object — not  to  see 
through  bis  unaccustomed  artifice*  !  The 
genius — the  gigantic  genius  of  his  mind,  will 
be  best  comprehended  from  this  curious  and 
fjroat  undertaking,  and  from  the  ingenuity  and 
indefatigable  industry  with  which  he  pursued 


MARTIN    FADER.  1  i23 

it.  Nor,  from  ihis  fact,  alone,  but  coupled,  as 
under  existing  circumstances  was  the  pursuit 
adopted,  las  strength  of  character  and  firm 
ness  of  mind,  are  of  the  most  wonderful  des 
cription.  The  task  was  attended  with  an  as- 
soriaiion,  which,  for  a  protracted  period  of 
time,  still  further  exposed  him  to  the  scornful 
execrations  and  indignation  of  those,  for  whoso 
cood  opinion,  alone,  he  was  voluntarily  about 

to  undergo  all  this  additional  load  of  obloquy. 

• 
Under  these  aspects  the  effort  was  a  high- 

soulcd  and  sublime  one,  and  furnished  one  of 
the  best  proofs  of  the  moral  elevation  of  his 
genius.  I  regard  it  now,  when  too  late  to 
arrest  its  exercise  and  progress,  with  a  senti 
ment  little  short  of  wonder  and  admiration. 

All  these  occurrences,  had,  of  course,  been 
made  known  to  my  wife ;   and  shocked  and 


124  MARTIN    FADER. 

terrified  as  she  had  been — torn  and  distracted 
between  a  sense  of  duly  to  myself,  and  a  feel- 
ing  of  deep,  but  unexpressed  regard  for  my 
accuser — when,  for  the  first  time  after  the 
trial,  I  brought  him  to  the  house,  with  a  highly 
proper  spirit — seeing  the  affair  as  she  had  seen 
it — she  declined  making  her  appearance.  I  in 
sisted  upon  it: — 

"  How  can  you  require  such  a  thing?"  was 
her  very  natural  inquiry.  "  Whatever  may 

• 

have  been  his  motive,  has  he  not  sought  your 
life.  Has  lie  not  brought  a  foul  and  false  ac 
cusation  against  you,  making  you  a  criminal 
of  the  darkest  dye  ?" 

"  Look  at  me,  Constance,"  I  said  in  reply, 
as  I  took  one  of  her  hands  in  mine — "  I  am 
the  criminal — I  committed  the  crime  he  charg 
ed  upon  me,  and  which  I  myself  had  revealed 


MAKTJN    FA  HER.  125 

to  him.     His  accusation,  so  far  as  he  was 
concerned,  was  neither  foul  nor  false  !" 

And  who  re  fore  did  1  tell  her  this?  \Yiiy 
should  I  have  multiplied  the  evidence  against 
me — why  put  myself  at  the  mercy  of  another  ? 
It  might  he  enough  to  say  that  I  did  not  fear 
that  Constance  would  betray  me.  As  she 
was  a  pure  and  delicate  woman,  her  love  for 
him — treasured  up  in  secret,  and  a  source  of 
trembling  and  self-reproach,  as  I  knew  it  must 
be,  to  her  heart — was  my  sufficient  security. 
She  would  not  have  linked  her  testimony  with 
his,  however  she  miiihl  have  hated  me  and 
loved  him,  fearing  that  her  motives  might  be 
subject  to  the  suspicion  of  others,  as  she  her 
self  would  have  suspected  them.  This  con 
sideration  would  have  left  me  without  fear,  in 

that  quarter,  but  this  was  not  a  consideration 
12 


126  MARTIN    PA  BE  R. 

with  me,  in  telling  her  the  story.     I  could  not 

refrain  from  telling  it— in  spite  of  myself  I  was 

* 

compelled  to  do  so — it  was  my  fate. 

I  shall  not  attempt  !to  describe  her  horror. 
She  was  dumb,  and  in  silence  descended  with 
me  to  the  apartment  in  which  Harding  had 
been  left.     To  him  this  was  a  moment  of  fear 
ful    ordeal.     The   woman    he   loved,    though 
hopelessly,  he  had  struck,  through  her  husband, 
lie  was  not  to  know  that  I  had  most  effectu 
ally  acquitted  him,  to  her,  of  the  oflenre,  for 
which  he  anticipated  her   scorn  and  hatred. 
His   anxiety    and    wretchedness  were   again 
manifest   until  she   relieved  him,   as  with  a 
boldness  of  spirit  which  I  had  never  before 
seen  her  manifest,  she  walked  forward,  took 
his  hand,  and  welcomed  him  as  if  nothing  had 
happened.     lie  looked  first  to  me,  then  to  her 


MARTIN    FABEIl.  127 

and  silently,  with  a  tearful  eye,  and  frame  vio 
lently  agitated,  he  carried  her  hand  to  his  lips. 
>Shc  retreated,  and  was  deeply  confused  by 
this  act.  I  saw  her  inmost  soul,  at  that  mo 
ment  in  her  face.  Why  had  she  not  loved 
J 

me  as  she  loved  him  ?     Why,  oh,  why  ? 

That  night,  in  my  chamber,  I  said  to  her — 
r 
"You  love  this  youth— speak  not — I  would 

not  have  you  deny  it.  I  will  tell  you  more — 
would  you  know  it  ? — he  loves  you  too,  and 
there  are  few  persons  in  the  world  more  de 
serving  the  love  of  one  another.  Were  I  dead 

O 

to-morrow  you  would  most  probably  make  the 
discovery,  and — " 

"Oh,  Marl  in  Fabcr,  I  see  not  why  you  should    £• 
torment   me   in  this  manner.     For  heaven's 
sake,  let  me  have  peace.     Make  not  all  mise 
rable  about  you  ;  or,  if  you  arc  bent  on  making 


128  MARTIN    FABER. 

me  so,  let  not  your  malice  exercise  itself  on 
this  unhappy  youth,  whose  life  you  have  al 
ready  embittered,  whose  prospects  you  have 
blighted — and  to  whom  every  hour  of  associ 
ation  with  yourself,  must  work  additional  evil. 
Persuade  him,  for  the  repose  of  all,  to  leave 
the  country." 

"  Would  you  fly  with  him  !     Beware,  wo- 
• 

man  !     Think  not  to  deceive  me — I  see  into 

your  heart,  and  understand  all  its  sinuosities. 
Look  that  your  interest  in  this  enthusiast  gets 
not  the  better  of  your  duty  " 

She  turned  her  head  upon  the  pillow,  and  sob- 
bod  bitterly : — yet,  how  wantonly  had  I  uttered 
these  reproaches.  The  angels  were  not  more 
innocent  in  spirit  than  was  she  at  that  moment 
when  I  had  inflicted  upon  her  the  tortures  of 
the  damned. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

I  am  now  rather  to  narrate  the  labors  of  an 
other  than  of  myself,  and  to  record  the  pro 
gress  of  Harding  in  the  newly  assumed  duties 
of  his  life,  of  which,  to  their  termination,  I  had 
little,  if  any  suspicion. 

In  accordance  with  his  design,  and  in  this 
respect,  my  own  habits  and  disposition  favored 
him  lamely,  he  was  with  me  at  all  hours — we 
were  inseparable.  lie  pretended  a  taste  for 
gunning,  and  though  a  poor  sportsman,  provi 
ded  with  the  usual  accoutrements,  he  would 
sally  forth  with  me,  day  after  day,  in  the  pur 
suit  of  the  game,  in  which  the  neighboring 

country  was   plentifully  supplied.      Day  by 
12* 


130  MARTIN    FABER. 

day,  at  all  hours,  in  all  places,  we  were  still 
together,  and  seemingly  in  the  same  pursuit; 
yet,  did  we  not  always  hunt.  We  chose  fine 
rambles — pleasant  and  devious  windings  of 
country,  secluded  roads,  hills  and  dales  and 
deep  forests,  in  which  a  moody  and  reflective 
spirit  might  well  indulge  in  its  favorite  fan 
cies.  Of  this  make  were  we  both.  To-day 
we  were  in  one  direction — tomorrow  in  an 
other,  until  the  neighboring  world  and  woods, 
for  an  extent  in  some  quarters  oi  twenty  miles, 
became  familiar  toils  in  our  excursions.  I  was 
struck  with  ITnrdinifs  nrw  habit  of  observa 
tion.  Jn  our  rambles  before  he  bad  seen, 
or  appeared  to  see,  nothing.  Nuw  nothing 
escaped  his  notice  and  attention.  Tree  and 
stump — hill  and  vale — wood  and  water — all 
grew  familiar,  and  a  subject  of  large  and  nar- 


MAltTIN    FABEU.  131 

row  examination.  He  seemed  particularly  so 
licitous  of  the  true  relations  of  things — of  par 
allel  distances — objects  of  comparative  size, 
and  the  dependencies  of  a  group,  in  the  com 
pass  of  his  survey.  Having  great  fondness 
lor  landscape  drawing  and  some  skill  in  the 
art,  I  put  these  peculiarities  down  to  the  ac 
count  of  this  propensity,  and  gave  myself  no 
conccnv about  it;  but  not  un frequently,  turn- 
in-j  suddenly,  would  I  detect  the  fixed  gaze  of 
his  rye,  fastened  inquiringly  upon  my  own. 
On  such  occasions  he  would  turn  aside  with 
a  degree  of  confusion,  which,  did  not,  how 
ever,  provoke  my  suspicions.  There  was  no 
object  in  these  wanderings  that  seemed  too 
humble  for  his  survey.  He  peered  into  every 
cup  of  the  hills — into  hollow  trees — groped 
his  way  through  the  most  thickly  spread  and 


132  MARTIN    FABER. 

seemingly  impervious  undergrowth,  and  suf 
fered  no  fatigue,  and  shrunk  hack  from  no  dif 
ficulty.  Having  hit  upon  a  new  spot,  which 
looked  impervious  or  dark,  he  would,  before 
its  examination,  closely  watch  my  progress — 
the  direction  which  I  took  and  the  peculiar 
expression  of  my  face.  These  practices  were 
not  unseen  hy  me  then,  but  I  regarded  them 
as  having  no  object — I  was  certainly  blind  to 
their  true  one.  It  is  only  now  that  the  mys 
tery  of  his  mind  is  unveiled — that  his  new 
born  daring  is  accounted  for — that  he  now  ap 
pears  the  rational  and  strong  spirit  I  had  not 
then  regarded  him. 

We  had  now,  in  these  rambles,  taken,  with 
the  exception  of  a  single  one,  every  possible 
route,  leading  into  the  neighboring  country. 
Hold  and  daring  ax  I  was,  f  had  always 


MARTIN    FADER.  133 

avoided  the  path  which  led  to  the  little  islet 
and  the  scenes  of  my  crime,  though,  certainly 
without  exception,  the  most  beautiful  and  at 
tractive  among  them.  This  had  not  escaped 
his  attention — though  he  had  so  contrived  it, 
as  not  to  appear  to  have  a  care  or  even  to  be 
conscious,  what  route  we  were  to  pursue.  It 
now  happened,  however,  that  we  were  called 
upon  to  retread  spots  which  had  grown  famil 
iar,  and  more  than  once  my  companion  would 
exclaim — 

"Have  we  not  been  here  before — can  we 
not  take  some  new  direction  ?'' 

Still  I  avoided  the  route  too  well  known  to 
me,  and  still  he  had  not  ventured  to  propose 
taking  it.  lie  would  not  alarm  me  by  a  sug 
gestion,  though  one  which  would  have  been 
so  perfectly  natural,  lie  took  another  mode 


l.'M  MAHTIN    F  ABC  II. 

to  effect  his  purpose,  and  one  day,  just  as  we 
were  about  to  pass  the  little  hollow  in  the 
woods,  which  led  directly  upon  the  path  I  so 
much  wished  to  avoid,  he  saw,  or  pretended 
to  sec,  some  game  upon  which  to  exercise  his 
skill,  and,  without  saying  more,  he  darted  into 
the  avenue.  I  was  compelled  to  follow,  and, 
slowly,  and  with  feelings  I  was  ashamed  to 
possess,  but  could  not  control,  I  prepared  to 
call  up  the  wh<>le  history  of  crime  mid  terror, 
already  HiiihVienlly  vivid  to  the  rye  of  mem 
ory.  We  pursued  the  devious  route,  and  once 
more  I  found  myself  retracing  a  region,  which 
though  for  months  uiilroddcn,  Was  still  as 
freshly  in  my  recollections,  as  when  I  m:u!t'  it 
the  field  of  exercise  for  all  the  Mack  and  blast 
ing  passions  running  then  riot  in  my  soul.  On 
we  went  from  point  to  point,  of  all  the  places 


MARTIN    FADER.  135 

in  my  memory,  each  of  which  had  its  distinct 
association,  and  spoke  audihly  to  my  spirit  of 
some  endearment  or  reproach,  some  sorrow 
or  delight.  Here  was  the  little  lake, — here 
the  islet  where  1  first  discovered  her.  Here 
the  scene  of  her  dishonor  and  of  my  triumph — 
here  the  place  of  our  usual  meeting,  and  here 
— the  spot  upon  which  she  perished  under  my 
hands.  I  strove  not  to  look.  I  felt  all  things 
too  vividly  in  my  soul,  and  though  I  closed 
my  eyes,  1  could  not  shut  out  the  images  of 
terror  which  weic  momentarily  conjured  up 
hy  my  imagination.  I  strove  to  look  in  all 
quarters  hut  in  that  which  witnessed  our 
struggle  and  my  crime,  but  my  eyes  invaria 
bly  turned  at  last  and  settled  down  on  the  one 
spot,  where,  I  beheld,  at  length,  the  distinct 
outline  of  her  figure,  as  it  had,  at  the  time, 


136  MARTIN    FABER. 

appeared  before  inc.  Slowly  it  seemed  to 
rise  from  its  recumbent  posture,  and,  ivhilc  I 
breathed  not,  I  beheld  it.  proceed  alonij  the  road 
which  I  had  taken,  when  benmiLT  the,  inani 
mate  burden  from  which  that  now  ^uidintr 
spirit  liad  forever  depaited,  to  its  place  of 
final  slumber  in  the  body  of  the  rock,  which 
stood  rigidly  in  the  distance.  I  followed  it, 
unconsciously,  with  my  eyes.  My  respira 
tion  had  utterly  ceased — my  hair  was  moist 
and  active — my  lips  were  colorless  and  cold, 
and  my  cheeks  we're  ashen.  'A  palsying  wind 
seemed  to  penetrate  my  bones,  and  though 
.lot  a  joint  trembled,  yet  they  were  all  power 
less.  J  became  conscious  at  last  of  my  con 
dition  and  appearance,  from  discovering  the 
eyes  of  Harding  anxiously  bent  upon  mine 
and  following  the  direction  of  their  gaze. 


MARTIN  FADER.  137 

There  was  something  so  expressive — so  earn 
est  in  his  look,  that,  though  yet  utterly  unsus 
picious  of  his  design,  I  was  nevertheless  not 
a  little  offended  at  his  seeming  curiosity.  I 
recovered  myself  on  the  instant  of  making 
this  discovery,  and  turned  round  abruptly 
upon  him.  As  if  detected  in  some  impropri 
ety,  his  eyes  fell  from  the  look  which  1  gave 
him  in  evident  confusion;  and,  without  a 
word,  we  prepared  to  proceed  in  our  ramble. 
Not  willing  to  suggest  a  solitary  movement 
while  in  this  region,  which  should  prompt 
doubt  or  inquiry,  I  left  the  choice  of  road  to 
himself,  and  saw  with  some  concern  that  we 
were  now  taking  the  direct  route  to  the  cot 
tage  of  old  Andrews,  the  father  of  Emily.  I 
had  no  fear  of  exposure  from  any  such  inter 
view,  for,  I  had  so  contrived  it,  that  all  suspi- 
13 


138  MARTIN    FABER. 

cion  was  diverted  from  myself  in  the  minds 
of  the  family.  I  had  busied  myself  in  the 
little  inquiries  that  had  been  made  into  her 
fate — had  pretended  not  a  small  portion  of 
sorrow  and  regret — had  made  sundry  presents, 
which  in  the  depressed  condition  in  which 
they  lived,  had  readily  contributed  still  more 
to  their  blindness  ;  and  never  having  been  re 
cognized,  in  the  dotage  of  the  old  man,  as  the 
boy  who  had  contributed  to  his  first  great  mis 
fortune,  I  had  escaped  all  imputations  on  the 
subject  of  the  second.  Besides,  I  had  taken 
care  to  visit  them  frequently,  though  privately, 
for  a  short  period  of  time  after  the  event,  and 
felt  secure  that  I  had  no  other  position  in  their 
regard,  than  that  of  confiding  and  friendly  con 
sideration.  But  the  subject  had  become  ilk- 
some,  and,  in  addition  to  this  fact,  1  had,  for 


MARTIN    FADER.  139 

the  first  lime,  perceived  in  my  mind  the  pos 
sibility  that  my  companion,  coupling  the  con 
versation  of  the  family,  which  would  most 
probably  turn  upon  the  fate  of  their  daughter, 
with  my  own  story,  might  be  enabled  to  gather 
from  the  particulars  such  information  as  would 
open  the  trail,  and  prepare  the  way  for  further 
evidence.  But  the  cautious  policy  of  Harding 
silenced  my  alarm,  and  indeed,  my  great  error 
from  the  first,  consisted  in  the  humble  estimate 
I  had  been  taught  to  make  of  his  character  for 
firmness.  There  is  no  greater  mistake,  than  in 
despising  him  to  whom  you  have  given  a  rea 
son  to  become  an  enemy.  Where  there  is 
mind,  contempt  will  engender  malice,  and 
where  there  is  malice,  there  is  a  ceaseless 
prompter,  which  one  day  will  couple  the  ven 
om  with  the  sting.  Self-esteem  in  exaggerating 


140  MARTIN    FABER. 

my  own  strength  to  myself,  had  also  taught  me 
to  undervalue  that  of  others — in  this  way,  I  as 
sisted  his  pursuit,  and  helped  him  to  his  ohjcct. 
We  came  soon  upon  the  cottage.  The  old 
man  sat  glowering  in  idiotic  abstraction  in  a 
corner  chair,  which  he  kept  in  a  continual 
rocking  motion.  His  mind  seemed  utterly 
gone,  and  though  he  spoke  to  both,  he  appear 
ed  to  recognize  neither  of  us.  His  wife  was 
glad  to  sec  me,  and  thanked  me  repeatedly  for 
some  articles  of  dress  which  I  had  sent  her 
some  months  before,  since  which  period,  until 
then,  I  had  not  seen  her.  An  "unavoidable  as 
sociation  called  up  the  memory  of  Emily,  and 
the  tears  of  the  old  woman  were  again  renew 
ed.  Harding  wilh  an  air  of  common-place  in 
quiry,  and  a  manner  of  the  most  perfect  indif 
ference,  almost  amounting  to  unconsciousness, 


MARTIN     FAB6R.  141 

inquired  into  ihc  story  to  which  she  had  refer 
red,  and  while  she  told  it  as  far  as  it  was  known 
to  herself,  busied  himself  in  plaiting  into  some 
thing  like  form,  the  remains  of  a  handful  of 
osiers  which  he  had  plucked  on  the  way.  His 
very  indifference,  had  not  my  fate  otherwise 
ordained,  should  have  alarmed  my  watchful 
ness,  so  utterly  different  did  it  appear  from  the 
emotion  which  he  usually  expressed  when 
called  to  listen  to  a  narrative  so  sorrowful  and 
touching.  But  he  heard  it,  as  if  in  a  dream. 
His  mind  seemed  wandering,  and  I  was  lulled 
into  the  most  complete  security.  Never  was 
indifference  so  well  enacted — never  had  mortal  ^ 
been  more  attentive  to  a  history  than  Harding 
to  this.  All  its  details  had  been  carefully  treas 
ured  up,  and  where  the  old  lady  had  associated 

me  with  the  adventures  of  her  daughter,  Ins 
13* 


142  MARTIN    FABER. 

mind  had  taken  deep  note,  and  the  record  in  hi* 
memory  was   ineradicably  written.     Over  the 
chimney  place  stood  a  rude  portrait  of  the  mur 
dered  girl,  to  which,  when  the  old  lady  called 
for  his  attention  to  her  beautiful  features,  he 
scarcely  gave  a  glance  ;  and  he,  whom  destiny 
selected  to  bring  the  murderer  of  her  child  to 
punishment,  provoked  openly  the  anger  of  the 
mother,  by  his  glaring  inattention  to  the  story  of 
her  supnoscd  fate.     We  left  the  cottage  after  a 
somewhat  protracted  visit.    I  had  no  concern — 
not  the  slightest  apprehension,  so  completely 
had  my  companion  played  his  part  in  the  trans 
action — but  lie  had  not  lost  a  word,  not  a  look 
not  an  action,  in  all  the  events  of  thai  morning. 
His  eye   was  forever  upon  me — his  thoughts 
*  were  dissecting  mine,  and  the  most  distant  as 
sociation  of  cause  and  effect,  drawn  vividly  to- 


MARTIN  FADER.  143 

gether  by  his  intellect,  quickened  into  sleepless 
exercise-  and  energy  by  the  influences  acting 
upon  it,  supplied  him  with  the  materials  for 
commencing  the  true;  history  of  my  crime. 

"We  passed  the  rock  on  our  return.  I  could 
not  keep  my  eyes  from  it ;  and  his  eyes  were 
on  mine.  He  saw  the  same  ashy  paleness  of 
my  check  and  look,  and  he  saw  that  this  rock 
had  something  to  do  with  my  history.  In  ihe 
analysis  of  a  story  like  mine — so  tenibly  ro 
mantic  as  it  was — his  imagination  became  a 
prime  auxiliar,  and  with  its  aid,  where  a  dull 
man  would  have  paused  for  fact,  with  the  fe 
licity  of  truth,  it  supplied  them,  and  he  grew 
confident  and  strong  in  each  hour  of  progres 
sion  in  his  labor. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

A  week  from  this  had  not  gone  by,  when, 
while  under  the  hands  of  our  village  hair-dress 
er,  I  beheld  a  picture  crowded  among  the  hun 
dred  upon  his  walls,  which  filled  me  with  as 
tonishment,  and  awakened  in  my  mind  some 
moving  apprehensions.  I  beheld  the  scene  of 
my  crime  truly  done  to  nature,  and  just  by  the 
little  copse  upon  which  the  deed  had  been  com 
mitted,  stood  a  female  form,  pale  and  shadowy, 
and  with  a  sufficient  resemblance  to  Emily, 
to  have  been  considered  a  portrait.  You  may 
guess  my  emotion.  Having  recovered  from 
the  first  shock,  I  inquired,  as  if  without  the  de 
sire  for  an  answer,  where  he  got  and  who  had 


MARTIN    FADER.  145 

painted  it,  and  waa  told  in  reply  that  an  old 
lady  had  brought  it  there  for  salc-»— the  lady  was 
unknown.     Finding  the  price  low — merely  no 
minal,  indeed,  he  had  readily  bought  it;  rely 
ing  on  the  merits  of  the  piece  to  insure  it  a 
ready   sale.     I  affected  to  be  pleased  with  it 
and  paid  him  his  price.     Having  secured  it  in 
possession,  I  examined  it  closely,  and  was  con 
firmed  in  the  opinion  that  the  whole  was  copied 
from  events  in  my  own  history.     Beyond  this 
I  could  perceive  nothing  farther.     The  prepa 
ration  of  the  piece  was  a  mystery,  and  I  had 
not  the  courage  to  seek  its  dcvelopemcnt.     I 
cut  up  the  tell-tale  fabric  with  my  knife,  and 
witnessed   its  destruction,  fragment  by  frag 
ment,  in  the  fla.nes.     Fool  that  I  was,  I  did  not 
dream   that  the  artist  had  yet  other   copies. 
And  so  it  was — another  and  another,  to  the 


146  MARTIN    FABER. 

number  of  three,  appeared  in  the  crowded 
shop  of  the  hair-dresser.  I  was  too  sagacious, 
however,  to  purchase  any  more.  I  had  begun 
to  tremble  !  Still  I  had  not  the  slightest  sus 
picion  of  the  author,  and  though  my  thoughts 
were  restlessly  employed  upon  the  subject, 
they  wandered  to  all  persons  and  conjectured 
all  things  but  the  right.  Still,  daily,  did  Hard 
ing  and  myself  pursue  our  rambles,  iiml,  each 
day,  through  his  adroit  ingenuity,  yielded  some 
thing  more  to  the  stock  of  that  evidence  which 
was  to  overwhelm  me.  By  degrees,  he  had 
penetrated  in  all  directions  of  that  fatal  wood  ; 
and,  at  length,  our  footsteps  were  bent,  as  in 
the  most  casual  manner,  up  the  steep  sides  of 
the  rock,  and  over  the  very  path,  which,  bur 
dened  with  the  dead  body  of  Emily  Andrews, 
I  had  once  journeyed  alone.  My  eyes  were 


MARTIN    FABER.  147 

again  riveted  upon  that  fearful  chasm — I  heard 
the  dead  fall  of  her  delicate  form,  as  it  struck 
from  side  to  side  in  its  passage  down — I  heard 
the  clattering  of  the  loosened  stones  which 
had  accompanied  and  followed  her ;  and,  at 
length,  the  same  subtle  imagination  which 
had  revived  all  the  circumstances  vividly  be 
fore  one  sense,  arrayed  her  reanimated  form 
as  vividly  before  another.  I  saw  her  arise 
from  the  chasm,  pale  and  ghastly  as  when  I 
had  seen  her  descend.  For  a  moment  the 
spell  of  terror  fixed  every  faculty,  and  in  that 
moment,  the  searching  glance  of  my  compan 
ion,  had  gathered  murh  towards  the  formation 
of  his  testimony.  lie  had  followed  the  direc 
tion  of  my  glance,  and  the  chasm,  half  con 
cealed  in  the  umbrage,  and  not  very  obvious 
to  the  gaze,  grew  distinctly  before  him.  I  re- 


148  MARTIN    VABER. 

covered  from  the  trance  which  had  for  a  time 
stupilicd  me,  and  we  returned  to  the  village. 
In  a  few  days  more,  and  another  scene,  to  me 
full  of  fearful  meaning  was  in  the  shop  of  my 
hair-dresser.     There  was  the  rock — there  the 
chasm,  and  just  above,  in  a  dim  haze  that  made 
vague  the  expression  and  outline,  but  did  not 
impair  the  features,  stood  the  phantom  person 
of  Emily,  as  my  imagination  had  borne  it  to 
my  sight  but  a  few  days  before.     \Vho  was  it, 
that,  with  so  much  felicity,  could  embody  my 
imaginings.  I  was  thunderstruck,  and,  through 
the  means  of  an  agent,  I  secured  this  new  ac 
cuser,  and  destroyed  it  in  lik«  mariner  with 
the   former.     But   another  self  made  its  ap 
pearance,  and,  in  despair,  I  gave  up  the  hope 
of  arresting,  in  this  way,  the  progress  of  that 
inquiry,  which,  taking  so  equivocal  a  form,  and 


MARTIN    FABER.  149 

pursuing  a  course  so  mysterious,  was  doubly 
terrible.  But  Harding,  for  he  was  the  artist, 
did  not  olonc  content  himself  with  probing 
the  secrets  of  rny  soul,  by  exercising  my  fears 
and  fancies.  lie  privately  took  his  way  to  the 
family  of  the  murdered  girl.  He  ascertained 
the  day  and  date  of  her  absence — he  took  care 
ful  note  of  our  association — of  the  expectations 
that  had  been  formed  in  their  minds,  not  less 
than  in  the  mind  of  Emily  herself,  from  the 
attentions  I  had  paid  her;  and  though  the 
true  nature  of  our  connexion  had  been  totally 
unsuspected  by  the  parents,  our  intimacy 
had  been  such  as  to  warrant  a  belief,  that, 
in  the  progress  of  events,  something  must 
necessarily  grow  out  of  it.  lie  found  that 
we  had  been  almost  in  the  daily  habit  of 

meeting,  and    in  the   very  wood    in    which 
14 


150  MARTIN    FADER. 

he  had  first  perceived  my  terrors.     lie  learn 
ed,  that,  in  dragging  the  stream  in  its  nr igh- 
borhood,  no  traces  had  been   found  of  the 
victim — that  a  search,  made  shortly  after  she 
had   been   missing,    and   on   the  same  day, 
throughout  the  count ry,  for  many  miles,  had 
been  ineffectual.     He  was  conscious  that  few 
places  of  concealment  offered  themselves  in 
the  circuit  so  examined,  except  in  the  cavity 
of  rock  to  which  his  mind  had  already  advert 
ed  ;  and,  associating  the  ill  disguised  appre 
hension  and  horror  which  I  had  exhibited  while 
upon  it,  he  came  to  the  rapid  conclusion  that 
the  mystery  was  to  be  developed  there.     Yet 
how  was  he  now  to  proceed  ?     There  was  still 
something  wanting  to  unite  together  the  sev 
eral  links  in  the  chain  of  testimony  which  he 
had  so    assiduously   and   singularly   woven. 


MARTIN    FAB  ER.  151 

The  circmistanccs,  though  strong,   \vcrc  not 
at  all   conclusive    against  me ;    and,  having 
succeeded    so   poorly  in    the    first   instance, 
and   with   ihc    public   prejudice    so   strongly 
against  him,  lie  might  well  dread  the  overthrow 
of  his  design,  in  the   event  of  any  premature 
and    partial   development.     Though   perfect 
ly    satisfied   that    the    chasm    contained   the 
remains  of  the  murdered  girl,  he  was  yet  well 
convinced  how  little  the  mere   development 
of  the  bccly  would   avail,  unless  with  some 
identifying    circumstance,    fixing   the    crime 
upon  me.     Accordingly,  he  devoted  himself 
busily  to  the  task  of  tracing  in  the  details  of 
the  mother,  all  the  particulars  cf  my  ir.timacy 
with  the  daughter.     In  this  scrutiny  he  hap 
pened   upon,   read   carefully,   and   copied   a 
single   note  having  my  initials,  merely,  but 


152  MARTI  NFABER. 

without  date,  which  I  had  sent  her,  enclos 
ing  some  ornaments  for  her  person  and  enga 
ging  to  meet  her  on  some  day  in  the  ensuing 
week.  The  style  of  expression  was  guarded 
in  the  extreme,  and  indicated  the  feelings  of 
one  who  esteemed  the  individual  he  address 
ed,  with  a  respectful  confederation,  which 
though  not  love  itself,  might  in  time,  become 
so.  The  absence  of  a  date,  alone,  presented  a 
difficulty,  which  was  only  overcome,  by  a  single 
passage  which  the  note  contained.  It  spoke 
of  pressing  engagements  for  a  term  of  some 
weeks  which  wrould  so  occupy  the  attention 
of  the  writer  as  to  leave  him  no  opportuni 
ty  of  seeing  her  for  that  period  unless  that 
which  the  note  suggested  was  embraced. 
What  engagement H  were  there  of  HO  pressing 
n  character  upon  me?  Harding  knew  as  well 


MARTIN    FADER.  153 

as  myself  the  nature  of  my  employments,  and 
felt  assured  that  the  assertion  was  either  false, 
or  thai  the  note  had  been  written  at  the  time, 
when  my  marriage  arrangements    had  been 
made;  the  only  circumstance   he  conceived 
likely  to  have  been  looked  to  in  my  mind,  as 
calculated  to  interfere  with  the  pursuit  of  any 
humbler  object.     This  was  conjectural,  liow- 
rvrr,  yet   the  conjecture  furnished  him  with 
an  additional  clue  which  he   suffered  not  to 
escape  him.     The  old  lady  could  say  nothing 
as  to  the  period  when  the  note   had  been  re 
ceived — but  the  jewels  were  shown  him,  and 
carefully  noting  down  their  kinds  and  quali 
ties,  he  proceeded  to  the  several  shops  of  our 
village  in  which  such  articles  were  sold.     He 
inspected  all  of  corresponding  description,  and 

submitting  those  in  question,  he  at  length  found 
14* 


154  MARTIN    FADER. 

out  to  whom  and  when  they  were  sold.  The 
dates  were  supplied,  and  were  so  far  found  to 
correspond  with  events,  that  it  was  indubitable 
that  but  four  days  after  their  purchase  by  my 
self,  Emily  Andrews  had  been  lost  to  her  fam 
ily.  The  circumstances  were  now  almost  em 
bodied  in  the  estimation  of  the  law ;  and  as 
sured,  but  still  unprecipitate,  Harding  prepar 
ed  calmly  and  quietly  the  whole  narrative,  and 
awaited  impatiently  the  operation  of  looked 
for  events,  to  unfold  the  entire  history.  And 
the  time  came  ! 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

Fate  had  me  in  its  power,  and  I  was  blind. 
If  I  were  not  weak  enough,  of  myself,  to  reveal 
the  secrets  of  my  soul,  and  its  crimes,  I  was 
not  less  the  creature  of  a  destiny,  which,  in  the 
end,  sot  at  nought  my  profoundcst  cunning, 
and  proved  my  wisdom  to  be  the  arrantcst  fol 
ly.  I  look  back  now  with  wonder  at  my  own 
stupidity.  A  single  survey  into  existing  things, 
as  in  all  other  concerns  I  had  certainly  made 
it,  and  I  should  have  laughed  all  inquisition  to 
scorn.  Now,  I  am  its  victim — the  shallow 
victim  of  a  most  shallow  design.  Thus  il  is, 
however,  that  the  wisest  suffer  defeat  through 
a  self-esteem  which  leads  them  into  wrong,  not 


MARTIN 

merely  in  their  estimate  of  themselves,  but  in 
their  estimate  of  others.  Thus  was  it  \viih 
me  ;  and  well,  from  my  own  experience,  may 
I  exclaim  with  the  ancient,  '''fata  viam  invc- 
nicnt.' 

Yet  was  I  not  unwarned — unthreatcncd.  I 
had  a  presentiment  that  something  was  to  hap 
pen — I  was  uneasy,  discontented — wandering. 
My  spirits  were  dreadfully  depressed,  and  but 
half  conscious,  I  took  my  way  to  the  secluded 
cottage  of  Harding..  Unannounced,  I  entered 
his  study,  and  found  him — on  his  knees,  at 
prayer.  A  strange  feeling  possessed  me,  and 
I  was  almost  tempted  to  kneel  down  beside 
him.  But  I  dared  not — I  had  never  been 
taught  to  worship — I  had  never  been  taught  to 
bend  the  knee,  and  tones  of  supplication  were 
foreign  to  my  sense  and  unfamiliar  to  my  lips. 


MARTIN    FADE  R.  157 

Could  I  have  knell  at  that  moment  and  fer 
vently  prayed  for  the  grace  I  had  not,  I  feel 
satisfied  the  heart  of  my  companion  would  have 
relented  of  all  its  purposes.  He  would  not, 
at  that  moment,  have  arrested  the  new-born 
exercises  of  a  spirit  so  redeeming  and  atoning. 
The  moment  of  indulgence  was  permitted  to 
escape,  and  the  fiat  had  gone  forth.  The 
doom  was  upon  me  ! 

\\  o  sallied  forth,  as  had  been,  for  so  long  a 
period,  our  morning  custom.  A  grave  solem 
nity  marked  the  expression  of  Harding's  coun 
tenance,  mixed,  at  intervals,  as  we  grew  more 
and  more  communicative,  with  a  faltering  hes 
itation  of  manner,  indicating  a  relaxing  of  pur 
pose.  I  can  now  comprehend  all  his  feelings 
and  emotions.  His  position  was,  indeed,  a 
strange  and  sad  one.  Under  a  sense  of  duty 


153  MARTIN    FADER. 

the  most  eacred,  not  merely  to  the  commu 
nity,  but  to  himself,  he  had  undertaken  the 
punishment  of  a  criminal  with  whom  he  was 
in  the  daily  habit  of  close  communion — to 
whom,  in  worldly  matters,  he  was  somewhat 
indebted,  and  in  whose  welfare,  he  had  at  heart, 
and  sincerely,  a  deep  interest.  The  task  of 
hypocrisy  which  he  assumed, sufficiently  pain 
ful  to  a  mind  like  his,  was  doubly  irksome  un 
der  the  operation  of  such  circumstances  ;  and, 
I  am  assured  that  could  he,  at  that  moment, 
have  been  persuaded  of  a  change  of  hcait  in 
me — had  I  niven  l,i:n  t!ic  sli^'ilcst  reason  to 
believe  that  my  crimes  were  regretted,  and 
that  it  was  my  fixed  purpose  to  become  a  bet 
ter  man, — he  would,  even  then,  just  a*  the 
curtain  was  about  to  be  drawn,  which  would 
unveil  the  whole  catastrophe,  have  stayed  )ii.i 


MARTIN    FACE  R. 

uplifted  hand — he 'would  have  rather  suffered 
the  tortures  of  his  imagination,  and  the  rebukes 
of  his  ambition,  than  have  cut  ofT  the  penitent 
in  his  first  approaches  to  pardon  and  atone 
ment.  But,  at  this  moment,  I  uttered  some 
vile  jest — discreditable  to  manhood  and  moral 
ity,  alike — and  the  spell  was  broken.  lie 
was  strengthened  in  his  purpose,  and  solemn 
ly  be  led  the  way,  I  following,  unconsciously, 
to  my  own  sacrifice. 

A  sudden  turn  brought  us  directly  upon  the 

uccnc  of  my  crime,  and  there,  to  my  surprise,  a 

goodly  company  were  assembled. 

"What  is  this!"  was  my  exclamation.  "Why 

arc  so  many  of  the  villagers  here.    Know  you 

what  is  meant  by  this  assemblage  ?" 
"We  shall  sec  !"  was  his  somewhat  sudden 

and  stern  reply,  as  we  continued  to  approach. 


160  MARTIN    FADER. 

My  heart  trembled,  and  leapt  convulsively  to 
my  mouth — my  knees  faltered,  but  there  was  no 
retreat.  We  came  up  to  the  company  before 
whom  my  appearance  had  scarcely  been  made, 
when,  wildly  from  the  group,  rushed  forth  the 
mother  of  Emily — she  seized  me  by  my  arm. 

"  Give  me  back  my  daughter"  was  her  fren 
zied  exclamation — uyou  will  not  keep  her 
from  me.  My  daughter — my  poor  sweet  Em- 
fly." 

They  dragged  her  back  to  the  spot,  where, 

feebly  and  with  an  expression  of  subdued  idio- 

\ 
cy,  old  Andrews  incessantly  shook  his  stick  in 

the  direction  where  I  stood,  while  his  palsied 
head  maintained  a  corresponding  motion.  I 
recovered  myself,  but  my  tones  were  husky 
and  thick,  and  I  am  satisfied  not  so  coherent 
as  I  could  have  wished  them. 


MARTIN    F'AliEll.  101 

"  What  docs  all  this  mean,  my  friends  ;  why 
this  charge  upon  me — why  this  gathering — " 
was  my  inquiry. 

"This  gentleman  will  explain" said  the  Jus 
tice,  pointing  to  Harding  who  had  by  this  time 
taken  a  place  midway  between  the  company 
and  myself,  "you  are  charged,  "continued  the 
officer,  "with  having  first  seduced,  then  spir 
ited  away  the  daughter  of  these  old  people,  one 
Emily  Andrews  ;  and  for  your  sake,  Mr.  Faber, 
I  sincerely  hope  that  you  may  be  able  to  es 
tablish  your  innocence  in  spite  of  the  strong 
circumstances  which  will  be  brought  against 
you." 

1  looked  to  Harding— I  sought  to  crush  him 
with  that  look — but  he  was  untroubled,  unap- 
pallcd  beneath  it ;  and,  though  trembling  with 

emotion,  a*  seemingly  determined  in  intention, 
15 


162  MARTI  N    FADER. 

as  the  martyr,  fortifying  if  not  establishing  his 
faith,  by  the  free  offering  of  his  blood.  He 
proceeded,  modestly,  but  confidently  to  his 
narration.  lie  recounted  the  history  of  our 
intimacy — described  once  more  the  circum 
stances  of  the  revelation  which  I  had  made,  in 
his  ears,  of  my  crime.  How  it  had  burned  in 
his  heart  like  so  many  living  coals.  How 
he  had  come  in  his  agony  to  me,  and  how 
finally,  in  order  to  escape  from  the  sugges 
tions  of  torture  inflicted  by  conscience  and 
imagination,  he  had  revealed  it  as  it  had  before 
been  heard,  to  the  officers  of  justice.  He 
showed  how  he  had  been  overthrown  by  the 
search  made  in  accordance  \viih  the  story — 
how,  writhing  under  the  reproaches  of  the 
public  and  crushed  in  their  opinion,  he  had 
been  on  the  verge  of  madness  and  suicide — 


MARTIN    FADER.  163 

how  I  had  sought  him  out  in  his  closet — re 
pealed  my  story,  and  how  he  had  again  be 
lieved  it.  A  certain  something,  he  said,  assur 
ed  him  that  I  had  told  the  truth,  but  not  the 
whole  truth — that  I  had  suppressed  and  alter 
ed,  so  as  to  defeat  inquiry  ;  but  that,  though 
the  causes  which  had  led  me  to  disclose  so 
much  unnecessarily,  were  unknown  and  unac 
countable,  he  was  taught  to  believe  in  the  com 
mission  of  the  crime.  A  desire  to  regain  his 
station  in  society — to  show  that  nothing  of 
malice  had  prompted  him  in  the  first  instance, 
inspired  him  wilh  the  design,  which,  carried 
out  pcrscvcnngly  and  properly,  had  resulted  in 
his  being  able,  he  thought,  most  satisfactorily 
to  prove  the  murder  of  Emily  Andrews  by 
Martin  Fabcr,  and  accordingly,  he  proceeded 
to  the  dcvelopcment  of  his  particulars.  How 


164  MARTIN    FADER. 

did  I  wonder  at  my  own  blindness  as  he  pro 
ceeded  in  his  narration.  Mow  did  I  wonder  at 
the  ingenuity  with  which,  without  any  clue,  he 
had  unravelled,  as  with  my  own  fingers,  all 
my   seciet.     He   had  watched   all   my  mo 
tions — all  my  looks—all  my  words.     He  had 
suffered  not  a  glance — not  a  whisper  to  es 
cape  him.     With  the  assistance  of  his  mother, 
who,  herself,  in  disguise  had  sold  them  to  the 
barber,  he  had  carried  on  the  affair  of  the  pic 
tures — he  discovered  who  had  bought  them, 
and  conjecturing  for  what  purpose,  he  dclied  me 
to  produce  them.     He  described  the  involun 
tary  terrors  which  my  face  had  exhibited  on 
approaching  the  spot  upon  which  we  stood — 
how  the  same  emotion,   so  exhibited,  had   led 
him  to  suspect  that  the  rock  to  which  he  point 
ed  had  also  some  connexion  with  the  transac- 


MARTIN  FADER.  105 

lion.  The  fuis  gathered  from  the  conversa-f 
lions  with  the  family,  leading  to  the  final,  and, 
&?  he  thought,  conclusive  proof,  in  reference  to 
the  jewelry,  ho  next  dwelt  upon  :  and,  with  a 
brief  but  compact  summary,  he  so  concentrated 
ihe  evidence,  that,  though  strictly  speaking, 
it  ill  inconclusive,  there  was  not  an  individual 
present  but  was  persuaded  of  my  guilt. 

"  And  now,"  said  he,  "  there  is  but  one  more 
witness  for  examination,  and  this  is  the  rock 
of  which  I  have  spoken.  I  am  persuaded 
that  the  body  of  Emily  Andrews  lies  there. 
The  expression  of  Faber's  eye — the  whole 
look  with  which  he  surveyed  the  chasm, 
could  not  have  come  from  nothing.  That 
rock,  in  some  way  or  other,  is  associated  with 
his  crime.  I  have  made  arrangements  for  its 
examination  and  we  shall  soon  judge." 


1()0  MARTIN    FADER. 

Placing  a  little  ivory  whistle  to  his  lips,  a 
shrill  sound  went  through  the  forest,  and  after 
the  lapse  of  a  moment,  a  sudden  flash  illumi 
nated,    and  a  loud  explosion  shook  the  earth 
around  us.     We   proceeded  to  the   spot,  and 
when  the   nmoke   had   cleared  away,  a  nlinut 
from  those  who  traversed  I  he  fragment  H,  torn 
from  the  fissure  which  had  been  split  by  irun- 
powder,  announced  the  discovery  of  the   vic 
tim,  and  in   her  hands — conclusive  evidence 
against  me — torn  from  my  bosom  without  my 
knowledge,   while   in  the  last   convulsion  of 
death, — lay  the  large  brooch,  the  loss  of  which 
had  given  me  so  much  concern   at  the  time, 
and,   on   its  back,  chased  finely   in  the  gold 
setting,  were  the  initials  of  mv  name. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

lie  came  to  me  in  my  dungeon — lie,  my 
accuser — my  enemy — my  friend.  In  ihc  first 
emotions  of  my  wrath,  I  would  have  strangled 
him,  and  I  shook  my  chains  in  his  face,  and  I 
muttered  savage  curses  and  deep  threats  in  his 
ears.  He  stood  patiently  and  unmoved.  His 
hands  were  clasped,  and  his  eyes  we're  dim, 
and  for  a  while  he  had  no  language,  no  articu 
lation. 

"  Think  not,"  at  last  he  spoke — "  think  not 
I  have  come  to  this  work  with  a  feeling  of  sat- 
isfaction.  I  have  suiTercd  more  agony  in  its 
progress  than  I  can  well  describe  or  you  un 
derstand — I  will  not  attempt  it.  If  you  can- 


163  MARTIN  FADER. 

not,  from  what  you  know  of  my  character, 
conceive  the  grief  and  sickness  of  heart  which 
must  have  come  over  me,  during  the  long  pe 
riod  and  regular  and  frequent  succession  of 
hours,  in  which  I  was  required  to  play  the 
hypocrite — I  cannot  teach  it  you.  I  come  not 
for  this.  I  come  to  ask  your  forgiveness — to 
implore  your  better  opinion — and  that  you 
may  attribute  to  a  necessity  which  gave  mo 
no  other  alternatives  than  death  or  shame,  the 
whole  of  this  painful  episode  in  my  life  ! 

lie  was  a  noble  creature,  and  so  I  could  not 
but  think  at  that  very  moment ;  but,  I  was  of 
the  earth,  earthy !  I  was  a  thing  of  compre 
hensive  malignity,  and  my  impulses  were  per 
petually  warring  with  the  suggestions  of  my 
sense. 


MARTIN    FADER. 

*'  My  death  be  upon  your  head — my  igno 
miny  be  yours — the  curses  of  all  of  mine  be 
on  you — may  all   things  curse  you.     Talk  of 
my  being  a  murderer,  arc  you  less  so?    Have 
you  not  hurried   me   to   death — a   shameful 
death — dishonoring  myself,   dishonoring  my 
family,  when  I  might  have  atoned  for  the  error 
of  my  youth,   in  the  progress  and  belter  per 
formances  of  my  age?     Hypocrite,  that  you 
are,  begone  !     Come  not    falsely  now   to  ex 
tenuate    what   you    may   not    excuse — your 
priestly  cant  about   forgiveness  docs  not  de 
ceive  me.     Away — I  curse  you  to  the  last!" — 
,  and   his  head  sunk  upon  his  breast,  and  his 
hands  were  clasped  in  agony,  and  I  exulted  in 
the  writhing  and  gnawing  of  that  heart,  whose 
over-delicate  structure,  I  well  knew,  could  ne 
ver  sustain  such  reproaches. 


170  MARTIN    FABER. 

"  Spare  me,  spare  me !  As  I  live  you  do  me 
wrong.  Be  not  so  merciless — so  unforgiving. 
Fame,  and  die  world's  good  opinion,  were  to 
me  the  breath  of  life.  I  could  not  have  done 
other  than  I  did  and  lived — I  could  not." 

"  Looked  you  then  to  me  to  do  it  ?  Was 
the  world's  good  opinion  nothing  to  me?  Had 
I  nothing  to  live  for?  Had  I  no  aim  in  life? 
Oh — away  !  I  si(  ken  but  to  sec  you  !" 

Patiently,  amidst  all  my  reproaches,  he  per 
sisted  in  the  endeavour  to  conciliate  my  fiend 
ish  mood,  suggesting  a  thousand  excuses  and 
reasons,  for  the  obvious  duty  which  I  myself 
felt  he  had  done  to  himself  and  to  society — 
but  I  rejected  them  all,  and,  in  despair,  he  was 
about  to  retire,  when  a  sudden  thought  came 
over  mo. 


MARTIN    FA  BLR.  171 

"  Stay,  Harding — there  is  one  thing — there 
is  one  way  in  which  I  can  be  assured  that  your 
motive  was  not  malicious,  and  that  you  have 
been  stimulated  as  you  say,  solely  by  a  belief 
in  the  necessity  of  what  you  have  done  !" 

"  Speak — say,  any  thing,  but  grant  me  your 
forgiveness — give  me  your  good  opinion  !" 

"  Ridiculous  !  the  good  opinion  of  a  murder 
er — the  hated,  the  despised  of  the  communi 
ty  ; — of  whot  good  is  it  to  you  or  to  any  body  ?" 

44  True — true  ! — but  even  with  the  murderer 
I  would  be  at  peace — I  would  not  have  him 
die  with  an  ill  feeling  towards  me.  But  there 
is  yet  another  thought  which  prompts  the  de 
sire  in  this  case.  It  is  from  my  associate 
and  companion  that  I  would  have  forgiveness, 
for  the  violation  of  that  confidence  which  grew 


172  MARTIN    FABER. 

'out  of  that  association.     For  this  I  would  have 
your  forgiveness  !" 

"  The  distinction  is  somewhat  nice,  but  you 
shall  have  what  you  ask — cheerfully  have  it — 
upon  one  condition  !" 

"  What  is  thai,  nay  on— I  will  gladly  nerve 
you." 

"  Justice  demands  a  victim  and  I  must  die  ; 
but  it  is  not  necessary  to  justice  that  I  should 
die  in  a  particvdar  manner.  I  would  not  die 
by  the  rope,  in  the  presence  of  a  gaping  mul 
titude — you  must  provide  me  with  a  dagger — 
a  knife,  any  thing  by  which  I  may  free  myself 
from  the  ignominy  of  such  a  death." 

"Impossible!  that  will  be  wrong — it  will 
he  criminal,  Justice,  it  is  true,  may  not  care 
whether  the  rope  or  the  steel  shall  serve  her 
purposes,  but  she  requires  that  her  officer,  at 


MA11T1N    FABEJl.  173 

leasl,  shall  do  it ;  otherwise  it  is  not  her  act. 
Jt  is  your  will,  not  hers,  that  would  be  per 
formed — her  claim  would  be  defeated." 

"  Shallow  sophistry  ! — this  then  is  your 
friendship — but  I  knew  it  would  be  so — 
away,  and  may — " 

lie  stopped  me  in  my  curse. — 

**  Slay  !" — he  exclaimed  hurriedly,  and  with 
terror — "any  thing  but  that.  I  will  do  as  you 
require." 


16 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

The  day  of  retribution — of  a  fearful  trial, 
is  come  ! — Horrible  mockery  ! — the  sunlight 
streams  through  the  iron  grating,  and  falls  upon 
the  straw  of  this  accursed  dungeon.  I  low 
beautifully — how  wooingly  it  looks — lovelier 
than  ever,  about  to  be  forever  lost !  Do  I  trem 
ble — would  I  yet  live  and  linger  out  the  years 
in  a  life  of  curses,  among  those  who  howl 
their  denunciations  forever  in  my  ears  ?  Could 
I  survive  this  exposure,  this  infamy,  and  cher 
ish  life  on  any  terms  and  at  all  hazards  !  I 
would  not  die — not  thus,  not  thus — on  that 
horrible  scaffolding,  I  shudder  but  to  think  on. 
Yet  what  hope  would  I  rely  upon  ?  I  have 


MARTIN    FADER.  175 

none  to  whom  in  this  perilous  hour,  I  would 
turn  in  expectation.  No  fond  spirit  now  la 
bors,  unslcepinglv,  for  my  relief.  I  have  not 
lived  for  such  an  interest — I  have  not  sought 
to  enlist  such  affections — none  hope— none 
seek  my  escape — none  would  assist  in  its 
consummation  !  I  am  alone — I  must  die  ! — 
and  what, — horrible  thought  ! — if  he  should 
not  bring  the  weapon  ? — if  his  shrinking  and 
woman-like  conscience  should  scruple,  tails, 
to  interfere  witli  the  decree  of  justice,  and  I 
should  be  led  out  in  the  accursed  cart,  through 
the  jeering  multitude,  and  go  through  all  the 
trials  of  that  death  of  shame  and  muscular 
agony  ! — let  me  not  think  of  it.  Let  me  not 
think  !— 

And  I  closed  my  eyes   as   if  to  shut  out 
the  light,  and  rushed  to  the  extremcst  corner 


170  MARTIN    FADER. 

of  my  cell,  despairing  of  the  appearance  of 
Harding  with  the  dagger  he  had  promised. 
But  a  few  hours  were  left,  and  the  sharp  and 
repeated  strokes  of  the  hammer,  at  a  little 
distance,  indicated  the  rapid  progress  of  the 
executioner  in  his  preparations  for  the  terrible 
performance  of  his  office.  I  groaned  in  my 
agony  of  thought,  and  buried  my  head  still 
deeper  in  the  meshes  of  my  couch. — Thanks, 
thanks — the  fates  be  praised — he  comes — the 
bolts  shoot  back — the  doors  arc  unbarred — he 
is  here !  I  live  again — I  shall  not  stand  then  on 
that  fearful  fabric,  lie  brings  me  that  which 
shall  enable  me  to  give  it  my  defiance,  and 
disappoint  the  gaping  multitude,  already  be 
ginning  to  assemble.  I  shall  defeat  them 
still! 


MARTIN    FADER.  177 

11  Oh,  Harding — I  had  almost  given  you  up 
— I  had  begun  to  despond — to  despair.  I 
dreaded  that  the  weakness  of  your  spirit  had 
yielded  to  your  conscience,  and  that  you  had 
forgotten  your  pledge.  God  of  terror  !  what  a 
horrible  agony  the  thought  brought  along  with 
it.  It  is  well  you  came  ;  I  had  else  cursed 
you  with  spectres  that  would  have  fastened  on 
you  like  wolves.  They  would  have  drained 
the  blood,  at  the  same  moment,  from  all  the 
arteries  in  your  system.  Give  me  the  knife." 

"  It  is  here,  and,  oh,  Martin — I  have  had  a 
terrible  struggle  with  my  own  sense  of  what 
is  right  in  the  performance  of  this  office.  I 
have  resisted  the  suggestions  of  conscience — > 
T  have  overcome  the  rebukes  of  my  own  mind 
— I  have  done  wrong,  and  do  not  seek  to  ex 
cuse  myself — but  I  have  brought  you  what 
16* 


178  MARTIN    FABER. 

you  desired.  Here,  take  it,  take  it  at  once 
and  quickly  before  I  repent  me  of  having  so 
weakly  yielded  in  the  struggle." 

"  I  have  it — I  have  it !"  I  shouted  wildly — 
shaking  the  naked  blade  as  if  in  defiance,  in 
the  direction  of  the  scaffold.  "  I  am  secure 
from  that  shame — I  shall  not  be  the  capped 
and  culprit  thing  of  ignominy  which  they 
would  make  me,  in  the  eyes  of  that  morbid 
rabble.  I  am  free  from  the  dishonor  of  such 
a  death.  Ah,  Harding,  thou  hast  almost  re 
deemed  thy  fault — thou  hast  almost  taught  me 
to  forgive  thce  for  thy  offending.  Nay — 1 
could  almost  forbear  to  howl  my  curses  in  thy 
ears,  and  avoid  saying  to  tlicc,  as  I  do— may 
the  furies  tug  at  thy  vitals,  like  snakes,  in  all 
hours — " 


MARTIN    FADER.  170 

44  Forbear,  forbear!"  he  shrieked — oh,  cruel; 
wantonly  cruel  as  thou  art — where  is  thy 
promise,  Martin — where  is  thy  honor — wilt 
thou  deceive  me  ?" 

"Ha!  ha!  ha  !-— fool  that  thou  art — didst 
thou  not  deceive  and  betray  me  ?  \Vhcrc  was  ' 
thy  honor,  false  hypocrite — where  was  thy 
forbearing  mercy  ?  \Vcrl  thou  not  cruel, 
wantonly  cruel  then  ?  Hell's  curses  be  upon 
thce — I  would  have  thec  live  forever  to  enjoy 
them — thou  should*!  have  an  eternity  of  tor 
ment — thou  shouldst  have  an  exaggerated 
sense  of  life  for  its  better  appreciation.  For 
bearance,  indeed  !  No — I  would  invent  a 
curse  for  thce  that — and  ha  !  thou  art  come  in 
season,  at  the  lit  moment,  to  be  my  help  in 
imprecation.  Come  forward — tliou  hast  lips 


180  MARTIN   FABER. 

would  make  an  oath  tell — and  tell  to  the  quick. 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  my  Constance  !" 

And  he  dragged  forward  the  young  and  ter 
rified  wife,  who  had  just  then  made  her  appear 
ance  in  the  dungeon,  and  forcing  her  upon 
her  knees  before  him,  he  stood  over  her,  wa 
ving  the  gleaming  dagger  in  her  eyes. 

"  Thou  shalt  kneel,  Constance  ! — it  is  a 
solemn  moment,  and  thou  hast  that  to  perform 
which  requires  that  word  and  action  should 
well  suit  its  solemnity.  Ay,  fold  thy  hands 
upon  thy  breast — yet  I  ask  thee  not  to  pray — 
thou  must  curse  and  not  pray.  Speak  then 
as  I  tell  thee — speak  and  palter  with  me  not, 
for,  doomed  as  I  am  to  death,  and  hopeless  of 
escape,  as  I  have  nothing  now  to  hope,  I  have 
nothing  now  to  apprehend  from  man.  Speak 
after  me,  then,  as  thou  hast  a  love  for  life — as 


MARTIN    FABER.  181 

tliou  hast  a  leading  and  a  lasting  terror  of  a 
horrible  death !'' 

Agonized  with  the  situation  of  Constance, 
Harding  advanced  to  interfere,  but  with  a 
giant-like  strength,  the  criminal  hurled  him 
back  with  a  single  arm,  while  he  threatened,  if 
he  again  approached,  to  bury  the  weapon  in 
the  bosom  of  the  kneeling  and  terror-stricken 
woman.  On  a  sudden,  she  recovered  her 
energies,  and  in  coherent  but  feeble  tones,  she 
called  upon  her  husband  to  proceed. 

"  It  is  well  thou  art  thus  docile.  Thou  art 
wise,  Constance — thou  art  obedient,  as  thou 
hast  ever  been.  Keep  thy  hands  folded,  and 
speak  after  me — say,  in  thy  wonted  manner  to 
thy  God — bid  him  hearken  to  thy  prayer — bid 
him,  in  tenderness  and  love  for  thee,  to  grant 
it  aa  thou  makest  it.  Promise  him  largely  of 


182  MARTIN    FADER. 

thy  increased  love  and  obedience  for  this. 
Promise  him  thy  exclusive  devotion — say 
thou  wilt  live  only  for  him  ;  and  strive  to  for 
get  all  the  other  attractions,  whatever  they 
may  be,  of  life  and  society.  I  care  not  if  thou 
keepest  these  pledges,  it  is  enough  for  me 
that  thou  makest  them." 

She  did  as  she  was  required.  She  implor 
ed  the  Father,  krvenlly  to  sanction  the 
prayer  she  was  about  to  make — she  vowed 
her  whole  love  and  duty,  in  return,  so  far  as 
her  poor  capacities  would  permit,  entirely  to 
him.  She  spoke  in  the  fullness  of  accumu 
lated  feelings,  and  with  a  devotion  as  deep  and 
touching,  as  it  was  tearless  and  dignified. 

"Well — that  is  enough.  Thou  hast  been 
as  liberal  in  promises,  as  I  could  well  desire 
thee ;  and  now  for  the  prayer  and  petition  thou 


MARTIN    FABER.  183 

hast  to  offer.  Look  on  this  man — the  mur 
derer  of  thy  husband — the  wretch,  who, 
wouldst  thou  believe  it,  my  Constance,  has 
the  audacity  to  have  a  love  even  for  thee,  in 
his  cruel  heart — the  wretch,  whom — thou  wilt 
be  slow  to  think  so,  my  Constance,  but  it  is 
true — whom  thou  dost  love — " 

She  looked  up  to  him,  as  he  proceeded,  with 
a  most  imploring  'expression — but  he  had  no 
touch  of  pity  in  his  soul.  lie  proceeded — 

"  It  is  true,  and  you  dare  not  deny  it,  my 
Constance.  You  love  the  wretch  who  has 
murdered  your  husband,  and,  perhaps,  when 
my  bloody  grave,  which  his  hands  have  dug, 
has  been  well  covered  over,  you  will  take 
shelter  in  his  bosom — " 

The  wretched  woman  shrieked  in  agony, 
and  fell  at  length  upon  the  floor — but  he  al- 


184  MARTIN    FADER. 

lowed  her  no  respite.  After  a  few  moments, 
making  her  resume  her  position  upon  her 
knees,  he  continued — 

"Him,  ihou  must  curse  !  Say  after  me — 
God  of  heaven  and  earth,  if  ihou  be,  as  thou 
art  said  to  be,  just  in  thy  provisions —  Say 


She  repeated  :     He  went  on. — 

"  If  the  power  be  in  tlicc,  as  1  believe,  to  do 
the  will  of  thy  creatures  on  earth — '' 

She  repeated. . 

"If  thou  canst  curse  and  bless — build  up  and 
destroy — yield  pleasure  or  pain — make  happy 
or  miserable — " 

She  repeated. 

"  I  call  upon  thee,  with  thy  agents  and  min 
istering  powers  to  curse  with  thy  eternal 
wrath — to  blister  with  thy  unceasing  sevcri- 


MARTIN    FADER.  185 

ties — lo  torture  with  thy  utmost  varieties  of 
pain — 10  make  sore  the  body — to  make  bitter 
the  life — to  make  wretched  the  spirit — to  pur 
sue  at  all  seasons  and  in  all  lands,  with  thy 
unerasing  and  most  aggravated  asperities,  this 
bloody  man,  the  destroyer  of  my  husband." 

The  youth,  upon  whom  this  imprecation 
was  to  fall,  rushed  forward — 

"  Speak  it  not !  oh,  speak  it  not,  lady  ! — in 
charity  speak  it  nor.  I  can  bear  with  the 
curse  from  his  lips — from  any  lips — but  thine. 
Sanction  not,  I  pray  you,  this  wnntoncss  of 
cruelty — pardon  rather,  and  forgive  me  that  I 
have  been  the  unwilling,  and,  in  all  times,  the 
sad  instrument  of  Providence  in  this  pro 
ceeding." 

"  Back,  back,  William  Harding — the  curse 

must  be  uttered — it  must  be  felt — it  must  be 
17 


186  MARTIN    F  ABE  K. 

borne.  Speak  on,  Constance  Fabcr — speak 
on — as  I  have  told  it  thee.  She  looked  up  in 
his  face  with  the  calm  resignation  of  a  saint — 
and,  as  one  entering  upon  the  pilgrimage  of 
martyrdom,  she  proceeded  regularly  in  the 
formula,  sentence  after  sentence,  which  he 
had  prescribed;  while  he,  standing  above,  mut 
tered  his  gratification  as  every  added  word 
seemed  to  arouse  new  agonies  in  the  bosom 
of  the  denounced.  Bijit,  as  she  reached  the 
part  assigned  to  the  application  of  the  curse, 
she  entreated  these  curses  upon  the  head  ot 
Constance  I'abcr,  if  she  should  ever  teach 
her  lips  to  invoke  other  than  blessings  upon 
any  being  of  the  human  family,  whatever,  in 
the  sight  of  heaven  or  of  earth,  his  oilencc 
might  be  !  The  glare  from  the  eyes  of  the 
disappointed  criminal  was  that  of  a  hvcnn, 


MARTIN    FADER.  187 

robbed  of  his  prey.     A  malignant  shriek  burst 
from  his  lips,  as,  with  uplifted  arm  and  furious 
stroke,  he  aimed  the   weapon  at  her  bosom. 
Harding  sprang  forward,  but  the  weapon,  as 
she  swooned  away  from  the  blow,  had  pene 
trated  her  side.    The  youth,  with  unlocked  for 
power,  tore  her  from  his  grasp,  before  his  blow 
<  ould    bo   repeated,  and   bore    her  out  of  his 
roach  lo  the  opposite   part  of  the  cell.     The 
keeper  and  his  assistants  rushed  in  upon  the 
prisoner.     As  they  approached,  he  aimed  the 
bloody  dagger  at  his  own  bosom,  but,  at  thai 
instant,  fear  came  over  his  heart — the  fates  had 
paralyzed  him — he  was  a  coward!  he  shrunk 
hack  from  the  stroke  and  the  dagger  fell  from 
his  hands.     Without   difficulty  he  was   in  a 
moment  secured.    Constance  was  but  slightly 
wounded,  yet  happily,  enough   so,  to  be  en- 


188  MARTIN    FADE  R. 

tirely  ignorant  of  the  horrors  of  the  scene  so 
malignantly  forced  upon  her.  In  his  cell,  the 
wretch  howled  over  the  unperforming  weak 
ness  of  his  hand,  which  had  not  only  failed  to 
secure  him  his  victim,  but  had  left,  him  with 
out  the  ability  to  defeat  his  doom. 
******** 

The  hour  is  come !  O  cursed  weakness,  that 
T  should  fail  at  that  moment  of  escape — But 
the  fates  had  written  it — I  must  fulfil  my  des 
tiny.  My  eyes  grow  dim — I  fail  to  see  any 
longer  the  crowd — all  is  confused  and  terrible. 
What  spectres  are  these  that  surround  me  ?  It 
is  Emily, — and  why  does  the  old  father  shake 
his  palsied  hand  in  my  face — will  no  one  keep 
off  the  intruders  ? — they  have  no  concern  here. 
I  have  raved — but  now  all  is  before  me.  What  a 
multitude — does  this  suffering  of  a  fellow  crea- 


MARTIN    FADER.    '  ISO 

lure  give  them  pleasure  !  Should  I  ask — I  who 
have  lived  in  that  enjoyment !  Would  I  had  also 
been  weak;  I.  should  have  escaped  this  ex 
posure — this  pain.  It  is  but  for  a  moment, how 
ever — but  a  momentary  thrill ;  and  then — fate 
will  have  no  secrets.  I  shall  no  longer  be  its 
blind  victim — its  slave.  There  is  an  old  man 
at  the  foot  of  the  scaffold,  that  I  would  not  see 
there!  It  is  old  Andrews.  Would  he  were 
gone — or  that  I  could  look  elsewhere.  But  no 
matter — it  will  soon  be  over.  I  would  I  had 
r\  (iod  at  this  moment — better  to  have  believed 
— on  earth  there  is  nothing  for  me — such  a 
faith,  though  folly,  had  been  grateful.  But 
now — now  it  is  too  late.  The  hour  is  come  ! 
— The  sunlight  and  the  skies  are  gone — gone 
— gone — gone." 


. 


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HISTORY  OF  THE   JEWS.     By  the  Rev.   H.  H 

MILMAN.     In  3  vols.  ISino.     Illustrated  with  original  Map* 
and  Engravings. 

Until  the  appearance  of  Professor  Milman's  admirable  work,  there 
was  no  History  of  the  Jews,  deserving  of  the  name,  except  that 
of  Josephus :  and  he  lived  at  a  period  too  remote,  and  too  limited  in 
its  knowledge,  to  enable  him  to  do  justice  to  the  subject.  The  no 
tices  to  be  found  in  various  Universal  Histories  are  meager  and  un 
satisfactory  ;  and  a  narrative  at  once  Christian  and  liberal  in  its  tone, 
spirited  and  elegant  in  its  language,  and  adequately  depicting  the 
manners,  wars,  religion,  and  policy  of  the  most  remarkable  of  nations, 
was  still  wanting.  The  nature  of  the  present  work  is  strictly  his 
torical—not  theolocgial— yet  it  elucidates  many  obscure  passages  in 
the  Old  Testament,  employs  with  great  skill  the  cr.sual  evidence  of 
heathen  writers,  and  throws  new  light  on  the  manners  and  customs 
of  the  Hebrews  by  frequent  references  to  the  pages  of  the  oldest 
travellers. 

"  Professor  H.  H.  Mihnan  is  one  of  the  most  chaste  nnd  classical 
writers  of  the  age.  The  History  of  the  Jews  embraced  in  the  vol 
umes  before  us,  has  already  passed  through  three  editions  in  Eng 
land,  and  is  highly  and  justlv  commended  by  many  of  the  moat 
respectable  periodicals." — A'.  \'.  Journal  of.  Commerce. 

"  It  is  written  in  a  very  interesting  manner — in  a  more  phil 
sophical  spirit,  and  with  more  depth  01  reflection,  th:in  is  generall 
found  in  histories  of  this  nature.     It  is  not  wanting  in  historical  con 
densation,  and  the  colouring  of  the  sty»e  is  lively  and  picturesque."— 
N.  Y.  Evening  Post. 

"The  narrative  of  tne  various  and  highly  interesting  events  in 
that  period  flows  on  in  a  chaste  style ;  and  a  thorough  knowledge 
of  his  subject  is  evident  in  every  page.  The  work  is  spirited,  well 
arranged,  and  full  of  information,  and  of  a  wise  and  well-cultivated 
•pint." — Athenaeum. 

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attractive  by  its  general  smoothness  and  simplicity,  yet  animated 
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LITE  OP  NAPOLEON  BONAPARTE.     By  J. 

LOCCHAKT,  Esq.     In  2  vols.  18mo.     With  Engraving 

This  celebrated  work  contains  an  epitome  of  all  that  has 
proved  to  be  true  concerning  the  character  and  actions  of  the  moat 
extraordinary  man  of  the  last  thousand  years.  The  English  lan 
guage  possesses  no  other  authentic  epitome  of  his  history  ;  and,  not 
withstanding  the  smallness  of  the  limits  within  which  it  is  com 
pressed,  the  narrative  throughout  is  clear,  distinct,  and  oopiout. 
The  life  of  Napoleon,  doubly  interesting  when  relieved  jof  the 
tediousness  of  useless  detail,  has  never  been  better  told. 

The  work  is  written  with  commendable  impartiality,  *nd  the 
author  has  been  careful  to  interweave  with  his  narrative  all  the  new 
illustrations  and  anecdotes  furnished  by  Bourrienne,  and  other 
French  writers,  whose  memoirs  have  appeared  since  the  publication 
of  the  great  work  of  Sir  \Valier  Scott,  from  which  a  large  portion 
of  his  materials  was  derived.  As  an  evidence  of  the  amazing  popu 
larity  ot  this  History,  it  is  stated  that  more  than  27000  copies  have 
been  disposed  of  in  Great  Britain  alone*. 

LIFE  OF  NELSON.    By  ROBERT  SOUTHEY,  Esq.,  LL.D. 
18mo.     With  a  Portrait. 

This  Biography  has  been  —onounced  one  of  the  Laureate's  most 
•uccessful  efforts  :  the  enthusiastic  and  romantic  character  of  Nel 
son  furnished  a  congenial  subject,  anil  he  has  treated  it  with  con 
summate  ability.  The  errors  of  the  fortunate  and  gallant  admiral 
are  fairly  and  fearlessly  exposed;  while  the  nobl«*r  elements  of  his 
Hand,  his  heroic  coumge,  his  perseverance,  and  his  insatiable  appe 
tite  for  glory,  as  \vt  H  as  thr  great  actions  in  which  they  are  dis 
played,  are  desfriln'd  and  illustrated  with  a  happy  choice  of  language 
and  most  felicitous  effect. 

"  Southcy's  fine  and  popular  biography  of  Nelson  was  very  much 
wanted,  and  is  now  to  be  had  very  cheap,  in  a  neat  and  cor> 
•veuient  form." — JV.  }'.  Cum.  Advertiser. 

LIFE  OF  ALEXANDER  THE  GREAT.    By  the  Rer, 

JOHN  WILLIAMS,  A.M.      18mo.     With  a  Map. 

This  volume  fills  a  blank  in  the  historical  library,  and  furnisher 
an  excellent  manual  for  the  student.  It  is  not  confined  to  the  mere 
exploits  and  adventures  of  the  Macedonian  hero,  although  they  con 
stitute  the  leading  topic,  but  contains  a  masterly  view  of  the  time* 
in  which  he  lived,  and  of  the  manners,  arts,  and  sciences  of  the 
Greeks,  Persians,  Egyptians,  Arabs  and  Indians,  and  other  nations 
whom  he  visited  or  conquered.  The  story  is  well  and  elegantly 
told,  and  conveys  a  more  distinct  aiui  accurate  idea  of  the  ancient 
Napoleon  than  is  to  be  found  in  any  other  history.  In  the  perusal, 
the  curiosity  of  the  reader  is  gratified  as  well  as  stimulated, 
and  his  mind  is  moved  to  profitable  reflection. 

"  The  style  is  good,  and  the  narrative  well  conducted.  A  modem 
history  of  this  famous  warrior  cannot  foil  to  be  interesting."— Aw»> 
Yvrk  Dady  Adverlutr. 


NATURAL  HISTORY  OF  INSECTS.  18mo.  Illus 
trated  by  numerous  Engravings. 

The  study  of  Natural  History  is  at  all  times,  and  to  almost  every 
person,  eminently  pleasing  and  instructive  :  the  object  ;n  this  admi 
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and  simple  style  in  which  it  is  treated,  ana  by  the  numerous  engra- 
v»ng>  with  wfuch  the  text  is  illustrated.  Thei  is  no  branch  of  this 
delightful  sciencn  more  pleasing  than  that  whic.i  exhibits  the  won 
derful  goodness  rind  wisdom  of  the  Creator,  as  they  are  displayed  in 
the  endless  varieties  of  insect  life — their  forms,  habita,  capacities 
and  works— and  which  investigates  the  nature  and  peculiarities 
these  diminutive  tribes  of  animated  existence 

"  It  seems  to  us  that  it  will  prove  at  once  agreeab\e  and  instru 
to  persons  of  all  clashes." — A.  Y.  Daily  Advertiser 

LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON.     By  JOHN  GAi/r,Esq.     18mo. 

The  splendour  of  Lord  Hymn's  fame,  and  the  interest  attendant 
upon  the  story  of  his  eventful  life  and  early  death,  have  combined  to 
render  his  biography  a  work  of  more  than  usual  attraction.  Mr. 
Gait  enjoyed  the  advantages  consequent  upon  a  long  and  intimate 
acquaintance  with  the  noble  poet,  and  has  given  a  striking  and  satu 
factory  description  of  his  mind  and  character.  One  of  the  greatest 
merits  of  the  work  is  its  strict  impartiality:  the  writer  is  evidently 
free  from  prejudice  either  favourable  or  adverse  to  hitf  subject,  and 
tells  what  lie  knows  or  believes  to  be  the  truth,  without  any  bias 
fjum  euvy,  ill-will,  or  aflection 

"  The  sprightly  pen  of  the  author  has  communicated  uncommon 
interest  to  this  work,  and  he  appears  to  have  done  perfect  justice  to 
Its  inspired  subject." — Albany  Daily  Adrrrtiscr. 

"Mr.  Gait  is  one  of  the  most  fascinating  writers  of  the  age." — 
Journal  of  Commerce. 

LIFE  OF  MOHAMMED;  Founder  of  the  Religion  o. 
Islam  and  of  the  Empire  of  the  Saracens.  By  the  Rev 
GEOKOB  BUSH,  A.M.  18mo.  With  a  Plate. 

The  objects  of  the  \\riter  in  the  preparation  of  this  volume  have 
been  condensation,  clearness,  and  accuracy.  It  was  written  ex 
pressly  for  the  publishers  by  an  American  author,  and,  in  addi 
tion  to  the  numerous  and  highly  flattering  commendations  bestowed 
upon  it  by  the  press,  it  has  received  the  testimonial  of  rcpublicatior 
in  England.  In  one  respect,  the  plan  adopted  by  the  author  pre 
sents  an  improvement  upon  preceding  memoirs  of  the  great  impostor 
in  the  careful  collocation  of  the  chapters  of  the  Koran  with  th» 
events  of  the  narrative,— a  method  by  which  thn  history  is  illustrated 
in  a  remarkable  degree.  The  appendix,  containing  a  series  of  pro 
phetic  invest igutions,  is  peculiarly  curious,  learned,  and  valuable. 

"  Mr.  Bush  is  a  scholar  of  extensive  acquirements,  and  well  fitted 
for  the  task  which  he  has  undertaken  in  this  volume."— jV.  1'.  Obi 


LETTERS  ON  DEMONOLOGY  AND  WITCHCRAFT. 

By  Sir  WALTER  SCOTT,  Bart.     18mo.     With  an  Engraving. 

This  is  a  very  curious  and  interesting  work,  containing  as  it  doe» 
the  results  of  much  thought  and  great  research  upon  one  of  the  most 
exciting  topics  of  human  inquiry.  Most  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's  un- 
mailed  novels  betray  The  predilection  for  the  supernatural  with 
which  his  mind  was  tinged,  and  the  extent  of  his  reading  in  works 
which  treat  of  "  the  history  of  that  dark  chapter  of  human  nature" 
to  which  this  volume  is  devoted.  In  it  he  has  laid  open  the  stores 
of  his  memory,  and  strikingly  condensed  and  elucidated  the  subject ; 
in  many  cases  explaining,  by  most  ingenious  theories,  occurrences 
which  seem  to  lie  beyond  the  boundaries  of  natural  action. 

"This  volume  is  most  interesting,  and  will  be  read  with  great 
pleasure  by  almost  every  class  of  readers." — U.  S.  Uazette. 

"  The  subject  is  most  alluring,  and  the  manner  in  which  it  is  han 
dled  is  magical."— Athen. 

HISTORY  OF  THE  BIBLE.    By  the  Rev.  G.  R.  GLEIO. 

In  2  vols.  18mo.     With  a  Map  of  Palestine. 

These  volumes  do  not,  as  from  their  title  one  might  imagine,  con 
tain  merely  an  account  of  the  origin  and  contents  of  the  Sacred 
Volume :  the  object  of  the  writer  has  extended  far  l«yond  this.  H« 
has  produced,  perhaps,  the  most  elaborate  and  able  examination 
of  the  various  objections  urged  against  the  Scriptures  that  has  ever 
been  written ;  and,  at  the  same  ttme,  one  of  the  clearest  and  most 
satisfactory  expositions  of  the  whole  Bible,  not  only  as  the  founda 
tion  of  our  faith,  but  also  as  a  history.  In  the  performance  of  his 
task,  Mr.  Gleig  has  exhibited  equal  piety  and  learning,  and  his  work 
is  calculated  to  facilitate  to  a  remarkable  degree  both  the  compre 
hension  and  enjoyment  of  the  inspired  writings. 

"  The  style  of  it  is  surpassed  by  no  work  with  which  we  ar» 
acquainted." — Albany  Ttltgriiph  and  Register. 

POLAR  SEAS  AND  REGIONS.    By  Professors  LKSLIB 

and  JAMESON,  and  HUGH  MUKRAY,  Esq.     18mo.     With  Map* 
and  Engravings. 

The  plan  of  these  works  would  not  be  complete  without  a 
requisite  degree  of  attention  to  the  most  recent  improvements  and 
discoveries  in  every  branch  of  science.  In  none  have  greater  ad 
vances  been  made,  in  the  present  century,  than  in  geography  and  the 
knowledge  of  the  earth  which  we  inhabit,  and  care  has  accordingly 
been  taken  to  include  the  best  of  such  works  as  treat  of  these  dis 
coveries.  The  Polar  Seas  and  Regions  ha\e  been  most  fertile  in 
results  through  the  enterprise  and  perseverance  of  a  Ross,  a  Franklin, 
and  a  Parrv,  and  the  work  in  which  tlu-ir  investigations  are  described 
IB  one  of  the  most  interesting  and  instructive  of  the  series. 

"The  writers  are  gentlemen  of  first-rate  standing  in  the  scientific 
World,  and  the  subject  is  one  to  which  every  curious  mind  is  attracted 
»y  a  sort  of  involuntary  impulse."— JV.  Y.  Journal  of  Cmnmerc*. 


LIFE  AND  TIMES  OF  GEORGE  IV.    By  the  Rer 

GEOHOB  CROLY.     18mo.     With  a  Portrait. 

t 

The  regency  and  reign  of  this  monarch  occupied  one  of  the  mo«* 
eventful  and  interesting  periods  of  English  history,  not  only  fromtlw 
magnitude  ami  importance  of  their  political  occurrences,  but  also 
from  tin1  vast  improvements  in  science  rtnd  the  arts  by  which  they 
were  distinguished,  and  the  number  of  eminent  individuals  who 
flourished  at  this  epoch.  The  character  of  George  himself  was  not 
the  least  remarkable  among  those  of  the  principal  personages  of  the 
time,  and  it.  has  l>ocn  handled  by  Mr.  Croly  with  a  just  and  fearless, 
but  not  uncharitable  spirit.  His  perceptions  are  close,  keen,  and  ac 
curate,  and  his  language  singularly  tejsc  and  energetic.  His  work 
will  b«  of  the  highest  value  to  the  luture  historian. 

"  Mr.  Croly  has  acquitted  himself  very  handsomely.  His  subject 
it  one  of  much  interest,  and  he  has  treated  it  with  unusual  impar 
tiality.  The  author's  style  is  chaste,  classical,  and  l>eautiful,  and  it 
may  be  taken  as  a  model  of  fine  writing." — Mercantile  Advertiser. 

DISCOVERY  AND  ADVENTURE  IN  AFRICA.     By 

Professor  JAMESON,  and  JAMKS  WILSON  and  HUGH  MURRAY, 
tsijrs.      18ino.     With  a  Map  and  Engravings. 

In  this  volume  is  recorded  every  thing  that  is  known  of  the  interior 
of  that  clangorous  continent  which  has  been  for  so  many  ages  a  trrr* 
incognita,  and  proved  the  grave  of  so  many  enterprising  travellers, 
except  what  has  been  revealed  to  us  by  the  recent  investigation! 
of  John  and  Richard  Lander,  whose  adventures  form  the  subject 
of  two  of  the  succeeding  numU'rs  of  the  Library.  The  plan  of  the 
work  consists  of  condensed  absti  acts  of  the  narratives  of  all  the  mod 
ern  African  travellers,  in  which  every  thing  important  or  interesting 
la  preserved,  while  the  unessential  details  have  been  HO  abbreviated 
as  to  bring  the  substance  of  each  account  within  convenient  limits. 

"  This  work  we  believe  will  be  interesting  to  every  class  of  readers, 
especially  to  the  philanthropist  and  Christian." — JV.  1'.  Evangelist. 

LIVES  OF  EMINENT  PAINTERS  AND  SCULPTORS 
By  ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM.     In  3  vols.  18mo.     With  Portraits, 

The  author  has  collected,  in  these  small  volumes,  a  history  of  art 
in  Kngland,  and  the  lives,  characters,  and  works  of  its  most  eminent 
protestors, — the  materials  of  which  were  previously  scattered  through 
many  volumes,  inaccessible  and  uninviting  to  the  mass  of  readers. 
The  critical  observations  profusely  scattered  through  these  biog 
raphies  will  render  them  useful  to  the  student,  while  the  personal 
anecdotes  with  which  they  abound  make  them  equally  alluring  to 
the  ordinary  reader.  The  labours  and  struggles  of  genius,  the  suc 
cess  of  perseverance,  and  the  inutility  of  talent  nnallied  to  prudence, 
as  exemplified  in  these  narratives,  afford  a  useful  moral  lesson,  while 
the  incidents  which  illustrate  them  become  the  source  of  pleasure 
and  entertainment. 

"The  whole  narrative  in  lively  ami  alluring."— AT.  Y.  Athu. 


HISTORY  OP  CHIVALRY  AND  THE  CRUSADES. 

By  O,  P.  K.  JAMKS,  Esq.     18mo.    With  Engraving!. 

No  modem  writer  is,  pe rhans,  BO  well  Qualified  to  write  upon  this 
eubject  as  the  author  of  "  Richelieu,"  and  of  the  "  Life  and  Time* 
of  Charlemagne ;"  unquestionably,  since  the  death  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  the  boat  informed  historical  antiquary  of  the  age.  The  present 
work  contains,  in  a  small  compass,  a  clear  and  concise  account  of 
that  celebrated  institution  which,  in  process  of  tune,  became  the 
foundation  of  the  modern  European  systems  of  government  and  juris 
prudence,  with  a  vivid  description  of  those  amazing  ebullitions  of 
national  enthusiasm  which  poured  such  immense  multitudes  of  war- 
like  pilgrims  upon  the  plains  of  Asia,  and  produced  such  extraordi 
nary  changes  in  the  condition  of  mankind.  The  work  is  eminently 
curious,  interesting,  learned,  and  philosophical 

"  The  author  of  this  work  has  done  the  public  a  service,  which 
we  think  will  be  duly  appreciated." — N.  Y.  Daily  Advertiser. 

LIFE  OF  MARY  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS.     By  H.  G.  BELL. 
In  2  vola.  18mo.     With  a  Portrait. 

It  is  now  generally  admitted  that  great  injustice  has  been  done  to 
the  character  of  Mary,  and  that  there  is  good  reason  to  believe  her, 
to  sav  the  least,  guiltless  of  the  dark  offences  charged  against  net 
Mr.  lUell  has  undertaken  her  vindication,  and,  having  investigated 
the  facts  with  uncommon  industry  and  patience,  he  has  succeeded 
in  establishing  a  conviction  of  her  entire  innocence.  The  sym 
pathy  excited  by  the  story  of  her  beauty  and  her  misfortunes  it 
now  heightened  by  the  assurance  of  her  wrongs.  Mr.  Bell's  is  con 
sidered  tno  most  ulVcting,  as  well  us  the  most  impartial  life  of  Mary 
that  has  been  written. 

"  The  reader  will  l>e  pleased  to  learn  that  the  life  of  Mary  has  been 
written  anew,  by  one  who  appears,  both  in  temper  and  talent,  ex 
tremely  well  qualified  lor  the  task." — JV.  Y.  Ailai. 

ANCIENT  AND  MODERN  EGYPT.     By  the  Rcv.M. 
KubhKi.i.,  LL.D.     INmo.     With  u  Map  and  Engravings. 

Tn  this  volume  is  contained  a  distinct  and  well  arranged  account 
fall  that  i.s  known  with  certainty  respecting  the  ancient  history,  as 
well  as  the  present  condition,  of  that  extraordinary  country  whose 
antiquity  haflles  the  research  of  the  most  persevering  explorers,  and 
to  which  both  Koine  and  Greece  were  indebted  for  at  least  the  ru 
diments  of  those  arts  and  sciences  which  were  brought  in  them  to 
such  perfection.  The  stupendous  remains  of  Egyptian  architecture, 
and  the  treasures  of  knowledge  that  sf  ill  remain  locked  up  in  the  far- 
famed  hieroglyphics,  have  long  engaged  the  attention  of  the  most  ac 
complished  scholars,  and  every  thing  relating  to  them  and  the  land 
in  which  they  exist  is  in  the  highest  degree  interesting  to  the  in 
quiring  mind. 

"All  that  is  known  of  Egypt  is  condensed  into  this  history;  and 
the  readers  of  it  will  find  themselves  well  repaid  for  their  labour  *rxl 
rnonojr." — A 


HISTORY  OF  POLAND.  By  JAMKS  FLETCHER,  Esq. 
18 mo.  With  a  Portrait  of  Kosciusko. 

The  recent  unsuccessful  effort  of  the  gallant  arjd  unfortunate 
Poles  to  break  their  yoke  of  bondage  has  fixed  the  attention  and 
awakened  the  sympathies  of  every  lover  of  freedom  and  every  friend 
to  humanity.  The  writer  of  this  history  has  brought  to  his  under 
taking  much  learning,  great  industry  and  patience  in  research,  and 
the  most  unbiased  candour.  The  volume  is  full  of  interest  and 
useful  information,  drawn  from  an  immense  variety  of  sources,  many 
of  which  are  not  accessible  to  the  mass  of  readers,  particularly  in 
America. 

44  Of  the  writer's  fairness  and  research  we  have  a  very  good 
opinion  ;  and  his  book  is  just  the  thing  that  is  wanted  at  the  present 
moment." — JV.  1".  American, 

4<  No  work  has  for  a  long  period  been  published  here  so  deserving 
•f  praise  and  so  replete  with  interest." — American  Traveller, 

FESTIVALS,  GAMES,  AND  AMUSEMENTS,  Ancient 
and  Modern.  By  HORATIO  SMITH,  Esq.  18mo.  With  Addi 
tions.  By  SAMUSL  WOODWORTH,  Esq.,  of  New-York.  With 
Engravings. 

41  Laws,  institutions,  empires  pass  away  and  are  forgotten,  but  the 
diversions  of  a  people,  l>emg  commonly  interwoven  with  some  im 
mutable  element  of  the  general  fechng.  or  perpetuated  by  circum 
stances  of  climate  and  locality,  will  frequently  survive  when  every 
other  national  peculiarity  lias  worn  itself  ou!  and  fallen  into  oblivion." 
This  extract  shovs  the  spirit  in  which  this  captivating  volume  was 
designed,  and  its  pretensions  to  utility.  The  information  imbodied 
in  its  pages  is  curious  and  extensive,  and  not  the  least  attractive  por 
tion  is  the  account  of  the  amusements,  Ace.  peculiar  to  different  sec 
lions  of  the  United  States,  added  by  Mr.  Woodworth. 

44  The  book  is  highly  amusing  anil  interesting." — Penn.  Inquirer- 

JFE  OF  SIR  ISAAC  NEWTON.     By  DAVID  BREWSTBR, 
LL.D.  F.R.S.     18mo.     With  a  Portrait  and  Woodcuts. 

This  is  the  only  extended  Life  of  the  greatest  of  English  philoso 
phers  ever  given  to  the  public.  In  attempting  to  supply  a  vacancy 
in  philosophic  and  scientific  literature,  Sir  David  Brewster,  himself 
one  of  the  most  profound  and  eminent  *avans  of  the  age,  has  not 
only  sought  out  from  resources  hitherto  unknown  and  inaccessible 
to  previous  writers  every  fresh  and  novel  particular  of  Newton's  life, 
but  has  given  the  most  lucid  explanations  of  his  great  discoveries, 
and  the  steps  by  which  they  were  accomplished  ;  and  has  been  re 
markably  successful  in  rendering  these  intelligible  to  all  classes  of 
reader*, 

"  The  present  publication  cannot  fail  to  prove  acceptable  and  uo» 


PALESTINE,  OR  THE  HOLY  LAND.    By  the  Rcr. 
M.  KUSMELL,  LL.D.     18ino.     With  a  Map  and  Engravinga. 

The  early  history  of  that  most  interesting  portion  of  the  globe— 
the  theatre  of  those  wonderful  events  from  which  our  religion  is  de 
rived — as  well  as  its  present  state,  is  described  in  tins  volume  with 
the  greatest  accuracy.  The  places  of  many  of  the  incidents  recorded 
in  the  Bible  are  pointed  out,  and  the  changes  that  have  occurred  in 
the  lapse  of  ages  are  carefully  delineated.  The  work  may  be  read 
with  pleasure  and  advantage  in  connexion  with  the  Sacred  Histoiy 
which  it  confirms  and  illustrates. 

"  This  work  is  the  most  desirable  record  of  Palestine  we  ha*» 
ever  seen." — American  TrovfUtr. 

"  The  whole  volume  will  amply  repay  perusal" — N.  Y.  American. 

MEMOIRS  OF  THE   EMPRESS   JOSEPHINE.     By 
JOHN  S.  MBMBI,  LL.D.     IHmo.     With  Portraits. 

Amid  the  turmoils,  the  vast  achievements,  the  ambitious*  Aspiring*, 
and  the  complicated  intrigues  winch  mark  the  cm  of  Napoleon's 

5reatne.Hs,  it  is  refreshing  to  pursue  the  elegant  and  gentle  course  of 
osephine,  whose  affection  for  the  conqueror  and  native  g«>odnesM  of 
heart  were  so  often  made  the  instruments  of  mercy,  and  whose  per 
suacive  voice  was  ever  ready  to  interpose  between  Jus  wrath  and  ita 
trembling  object.  Placid  in  situations  peculiarly  trying,  Josephine 
preserved  her  character  unsullied,  and  the.  utory  of  her  life  abounds 
with  occasions  for  the  respect  and  admiration  of  the  reader.  Tlie 
author  has  performed  his  task  with  great  ability,  and  the  public  IB 
indebted  to  him  for  oau  of  the  most  delightful  biographies. 

**  This  is  the  only  complete  biography  which  has  ever  appear'.*! 
of  that  much  admired  woman." — Ar.  1 .  Constellation. 


This  work  will  IKJ  found  to  possess  a  beauty  of  language,  a  fa»- 

'cnth  ol   into 
kind  can  claim." — Boston  Traveller. 


cinaiion  of  style,  and  a  depth  ol  inter  at  which  few  works  of  thi* 


COURT  AND  CAMP  op  BONAPARTE.     18mo.     Wit 

a  Portrait  of  Prince  Tulleyrund. 

This  volume  has  been  carefully  prepared  as  a  suitable  and  indis- 
pensuhle  companion  t(»  the  Life  of  Napoleon.  Jt  contains  the  sub- 
Stance  of  thr  many  hundred  volumes  of  Memoirs,  Live*,  Narratives, 
anecdotes,  tVc.,  connected  with  the  career  ol  Napoleon,  with  which 
tho  press  of  France  has  I  wen  MO  prolilir  during  the  last  fifteen  years. 
It  present*  rapid  but  vigorously  diawn  sketches  of  the  emperor's 
brothers,  wives,  sisters,  ministers,  maishals,  and  generals;  ami 
those  who  wish  to  gam  a  competent  knowledge,  ol  "  N<tjx>leon  and  h* 
timei"  will  lind  no  work  in  any  language  which  conveys  so  much 
information  in  so  little  space  or  in  a  more  lively  and  agreeable 
manner. 

"  This  work  is  highly  interesting."—  V.  S.  Gazttte. 


LIVES  AND  VOYAGES  OF  DRAKE,  CAVENDISH, 
AND  DAMPIER;  including  the  History  of  the  Bucaniers. 
18mo.  With  Portraits. 

The  relation  of  the  voyages,  discoveries,  and  adventures  of  early 
and  celebratoi  English  navigators  is,  in  so  far,  a  history  of  the  rise 
of  her  naval  power.  In  this  volume  are  contained  the  lives  of  three 
of  the  most  eminent  ;  and,  from  the  very  nature  of  the  subject,  it  pre 
sents  murh  runous  and  valuable  information,  gleaned  from  many 
source*,  and  in  every  instance  verified  by  scrupulous  examination 
and  reference  to  original  documents.  Early  Spanish  Discovery  in 
the  South  Seas,  and  the  first  circumnavigation  ol  the  globe  by  Ma 
gellan,  form  a  subordinate  but  appropriate  branch  of  the  work  ;  and 
the  subject  is  completed  by  the  History  of  the  Hucanirrs,  —  thos,» 
dannir  rovers  whose  wild  adventures  afford  so  rnurh  to  charm  the 
youthful  mind,  and  form  one  of  the  most  interesting  chapters  in  the 
annals  of  maritime  enterprise  and  adventure. 

DESCRIPTION  OF  PITCAIRN'S  ISLAND  AND  ITS 
INHABITANTS  ;  with  an  authentic  Account  of  the  Mutiny 
of  the  Ship  Bounty,  and  of  the  subsequent  Fortunes  of  the 
Mutineers.  By  JOHN  BARROW,  Esq.  J8ino.  With  Engra 
vings. 

The  author  of  thin  Tolumn  ha*  brought  into  one  connected  view 
wh.it  had  heretofore  appeared  only  in  detnrhed  fragments,  and  some 
ol  these  even  not  generally  accessible.  The  story  is  replfte  with  in 
terest.  We  are  taught  by  the  Hook  of  Sacred  History  that  the  diso- 
beiiirnce  of  our  first  parents  entailed  upon  our  globe  a  sinful  and 
Kiirtermg  nice  ;  in  our  own  time  there  has  sprung1  up  from  the  most 
abandoned  of  this  depraved  family  —  from  pirates,  mutineers,  and 
murderers  —  a  little  society  which,  under  the  prrcrpts  of  that  Sacred 
Volume,  is  characterized  by  religion,  morality,  and  innocence.  The 
discovery  of  this  happy  people,  as  unexpected  as  it  was  accidental, 
and  everything  relating  to  their  condition  and  history,  partake  so 
much  of  the  romantic  as  to  render  the  story  not  ill-adapted  lor  an 
epic  jHH'in. 

SACRED  HISTORY  OF  THE  WORLD;  as  displayed 
in  the  Creation  and  subsequent  Events  to  the  Deluge.     By 
TURNER,  F.S.A.     18mo. 


To  exhibit  the  Divine  Mind  in  connexion  with  the  production  and 
preservation,  and  with  the  laws  and  agencies  of  visible  nature, 
and  to  lead  the  inquirer  to  perceive  the  clc.ar  and  universal  dis 
tinction  which  prevails  U'twem  the  material  and  immaterial  »ub- 
stanres  m  our  world,  both  in  their  phenomena  and  their  principle!. 
is  the  mam  object  of  this  admirable  volume.  In  it  religious  and 
scientific  instruction  are  skilfully  and  strikingly  blended,  and  facts 
and  principles  are  so  made  to  illustrate  each  other  that  the  mind  and 
heart  are  equally  improved  by  its  perusal,  and  the  cause  of  science  is, 
as  it  were,  identified  with  that  of  religion.  The  information  con 
tained  in  it  chiefly  relates  to  Natural  History,  and  it  is  extremely 
copious,  accurate,  and  interesting,  white  the  reflections  are  eminent 
for  their  depth,  wisdom,  and  piety. 


MEMOIRS  OP  CELEBRATED  FEMALE  SOVE 
REIGNS.  Bj  Mr«.  JAMESON.  In  2  vols.  18mo. 

The  intention  of  this  work  is  to  illustrate  the  influence  which  a 
female  government  has  had  generally  on  men  and  nations,  and  that 
\\hich  the  possession  of  power  has  had  individually  on  the  female 
character.  The  didactic  lorm  of  history  or  biography  has  not  always 
been  adhered  to;  incidents  and  characters  are  treated  rather  in  a 
moral  than  in  a  political  or  historical  point  of  view ;  and  public 
'affairs  and  national  events  are  not  dwelt  upon,  except  as  connected 
with  the  destiny,  or  emanating  from  the  passions  or  prejudices  of  the 
individual  or  sovereign.  The  Lives  form  an  admirable  illustration 
of  the  female  character,  and  the  lessons  they  furnish  abound  with  in 
struction,  while  the  incidents  recorded  are  interesting,  not  only  in 
themselves,  but  as  authentic  details  of  remarkable  personages  whom 
circumstances  or  personal  qualities  have  invested  with  claims  to  our 
attention. 

AN  EXPEDITION  TO  EXPLORE  THE  COURSE 
AND  TERMINATION  OF  THE  NIGER.  By  RICHARD 
and  JOHN  LANDER.  In  2  vols.  18mo.  With  Maps  and  En 
gravings. 

With  encouragement  and  assistance  of  a  very  limited  description 
these  adventurous  young  men  embarked  in  an  enterprise  which  in 
every  previous  instance  had  terminated  fatally ;  and  all  who  knew 
the  nature  of  the  climate,  and  the  grievous  hardships  they  must  en 
counter,  predicted  that  the  only  intelligence  ever  received  of  them 
would  be  some  obscure  rumour  of  their  destruction.  The  narrative 
shows  how  often  these  predictions  were  on  the  point  of  being  verified. 
They  were  assailed  by  sickness,  imprisoned  in  filthy  huts,  sold  as 
slaves,  plundered,  abused,  and  nearly  sacrificed  to  the  cupidity  and 
revenge  of  the  ferocious  savages.  In  suite  of  all  these  obstacles,  l>v 
means  of  patience,  perseverance,  enthusiasm,  and  courage,  they 
filially  triumphed  over  every  difliculty  and  compUtely  gamed  the 
object  of  their  mission,  thus  cllectini;  the  most  important  and  appar 
ently  the  most  hopeless  geographical  discovery  of  the  age. 

LIVES  OF  CELEBRATED  TRAVELLERS.  By 
JAMES  A*  ST.  JOHN.  In  3  vols.  18aio. 

Every  man  whose  mind  can  sympathize  with  human  nature  under 
all  its  various  aspects,  and  can  detect  passions,  weaknesses,  and  vir 
tues  like  his  own  through  the  endless  disguises  effected  by  strange 
religions,  policies,  manners,  or  climates,  must  peruse  the  relations 
of  veracious  travellers  with  satisfaction  and  advantage.  The  author 
of  these  volumes  has  with  great  industry  and  judgment  compiled  a 
series  of  highly  interesting  narratives,  containing  the  most  striking 
incidents  in  the  lives  and  wanderings  of  all  the  celebrated  travellers 
that  have  flourished  within  the  last  eight  centuries,  taking  them  up 
in  their  regular  order  of  succession,  presenting  only  the  attracti\«» 
portions*,  and  omitting  all  useless  and  unnecessary  details.  The 
reader  will  find  in  these  volumes  the  substance  of  many  ponderous 
tomes,  most  of  which  are  rare,  and  only  to  be  found  in  the  extensive 
European  libraries. 


INQUIRIES  CONCERNING  THE  INTELLECTUAL 
POWERS  AND  THE  INVESTIGATION  OF  TRUTH. 
13y  JOHN  ABKRCROMHIE,  M.D.  18rno. 

THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE  MORAL  FEELINGS. 

By  the  Same.     I8mo. 

The  study  of  the  phenomena  of  mind  presents  a  subject  of  intense 
interest,  not  only  to  the  moral  philosopher,  hut  to  every  one  who  hag 
in  view  the  cultivation  of  his  own  mental  powers.  In  the  pursuit 
of  this  study  one  of  the  greatest  obstacles  arises  from  the  difficulty 
of  procuring  fact?,  and  this  obstacle,  it  is  one  of  the  objects  of  tho 
present  volumes  to  assist  in  removing.  In  the  performance  of  his 
undertaking  the  accomplished  author  exhibits  the  possession  of  a 
mind  thoroughly  versed  in  the  details  of  tlie  science  to  which  hit 
attention  is  directed,  and  familiar  with  abs'ract  inquiry.  His  des 
criptions  of  the  mental  phenomena  are  singularly  lucid,  precise,  and 
interesting,  and  his  reasonings  sound,  ordinal,  and  perspicuous.  Ho 
never  seeks  to  surprise  by  the  ingenuity,  or  to  startle  by  the  novelty 
of  his  doctrines,  but  directs  all  his  force  against  the  most  prominent 
difficulties  of  his  subject,  and  never  quits  his  position  until  they  are 
Hilxhied.  Above  all.  he  has  exhibited  philosophy  as  the  handmaid 
of  religion,  and  made  it  manifest  that  all  the  fays  of  knowledge 
naturally  converge  towards  that  le  point  in  which  is  situated  the 
throne  of  heavenly  and  eternal  truth. 

The  most  able  and  influential  reviews,  l>oth  of  England  and  the 
United  States,  have  given  the  strongest  encomiums  to  this  admirable 
work,  and  it  has  been  extensively  adopted  in  our  co'leges  and 
higher  establishments  for  education. 

"  It  will  not  only  feed,  but  form  the  public  intellect.  It  cannot  tie 
disseminated  too  widely  in  a  nation  eager  for  knowledge,  keen  in 
inquiry  to  a  proverb,  and  accustomed  to  think  no  matters  too  high 
for  bcrutiny,  no  authority  too  venerable  for  question." — Churchman. 

LIFE  OF  FREDERICK  IT.,  KING  OF  PRUSSIA.    By 

LORD  DOVER.     In  2  vols.  1 81110.     With  a  Portrait. 

Frrdf  rick  II.  lived  in  an  age  among  the  most  remarkable  in  the 
annals  of  the  world.  He  was  one  of  those,  men  who  constitute  an 
epoch ;  who,  by  their  paramount  influence  upon  the  events  of  a  par 
ticular  period,  impress  it,  in  a  degree,  with  characteristics  resulting 
from  their  own  peculiar  sentiments,  habits,  and  proceedings;  who 
may  be  considered  monuments  on  tho  road  of  ages  to  designate  cer 
tain  illusions  of  time.  But,  apart  from  the  character  ot  Frederic, 
the  great  incidents  in  the  midst  of  which  he  lived  and  moved,  and  in 
which  he  was  a  prominent  actor,  render  this  period  of  European  his 
tory  one  of  the  most  interesting  and  important ;  and  it  has  been  ably 
delineated  by  the  modern  historian  of  the  Prussian  monarch.  Lord 
Dover  lias  long  been  favourably  known  as  the  Hon.  Mr.  Ellis,  and 
las  Life  of  Frederick  has  much  enhanced  his  reputation.  It  is  hon 
ourable  to  him,  considering  the  irreligious  character  of  Frederick, 
that  he  has  nowhere  rendered  vice  attractive,  and  that  his  pages  art 
studiously  guarded  from  the  alighteet  contamination  of  infidelity. 


SKETCHES  FROM  VENETIAN  HISTORY.  By  the 
Rev.  E.  SMKDLBY.  In  2  vola.  18mo.  With  Engraving*. 

Few  have  the  knowledge,  the  time,  or  the  means  to  explore  for 
themselves  the  treasures  of  the  Italian  chronicles.  The  author  of 
this  work  has  laid  open  their  stores  for  the  benefit  of  those  to  whom 
the  language  ir.  which  they  are  written  renders  them  a  sealed  book-- 
gleaning  from  them  ihe  most  characteristic  incidents,  amusing  sto 
ries,  and  anecdotes,  while,  at  the  same  time,  he  has  sustained  all 
the  dignity  of  historical  research ;  passing  lightly  over  events  of 
minor  importance,  and  reserving  himself  for  those  momentous  and 
interesting  transactions  which  require  to  be  more  fully  displayed. 
The  Ix'auty  of  the  stvle  has  been  very  generally  noticed,  und  has 
gamed  the  applause  of  the  most  competent  judges. 

INDIAN  BIOGRAPHY;  OR  AN  HISTORICAL  AC 
COUNT  OF  THE  NORTH  AMERICAN  NATIVE 
ORATORS,  WARRIORS,  8TATESM  EN,  &c.  By  B.  B. 
THATCHER,  Esq.  In  2  vols.  18mo.  With  Engravings. 

The  extensive  popularity  of  these  Biographies  is  one  of  the 
strongest  evidences  of  their  merit:  within  a  very  few  months  after 
the  publication  a  large  edition  was  disposed  of,  and  the  work  was  at 
once  established  as  a  standard.  Until  its  appearance  there  was  no 
authentic  or  satisfactory  account  of  the  Indians  :  notices  of  a  fe»v  ot 
the  most  distinguished  among  them  in  earlier  times  were  to  be  found 
scattered  through  the  pages  of  various  historical  works,  but  tiie  num 
ber  was  very  limited,  and  it  might  be  said  that  all  knowledge  of  their 
tnie  character,  and  of  the  traits  for  which  they  were  remarkable,  was 
locked  up  in  manuscripts  or  in  obsolete  publications.  The  writer 
of  these  volumes  has,  with  great  industry  and  perseverance, explored 
those  almost  unknown  stores  of  information,  and  produced  a  work 
of  the  highest  character  for  candour,  exter.t,  and  accuracy.  It  has 
been  truly  said,  that  until  Mr.  Thatcher  took  upon  himself' the  office 
of  their  historian,  full  justice  had  never  been  done  to  the  characters 
and  actions  of  the  aborigines. 

HISTORICAL  AND  DESCRIPTIVE  ACCOUNT  OF 

BRITISH    INDIA;    from   the   most  remote    Period  to  the 

present  Time.      By  several  eminent  Authors.      In   3   vol«. 

l~.ao.     With  a  Map  and  Engravings. 

A  history  of  India  in  a  convenient  form,  and  in  an  easy  and  fami 
liar  style,  has  lout;  been  considered  a  desideratum.  This  work  com 
mences  with  the  early  annals  of  the  Hindoos,  traces  the  progress  and 
decline  of  the  Mohammedan  power,  and  brings  the  history  of  the 
British  dominion  in  India  down  to  the  time  of  '.he  permanent  estab 
lishment  of  the  India  Company  and  the  foundation  of  that  stupendop* 
empire.  It  is  divided  into  departments  comprising  the  history,  litera 
ture,  arts,  and  manners  of  the  Hindoos,  and  a  description  of  the 
country,  its  climate,  soil,  diseases,  productions,  and  natural  features : 
these  departments  have  been  committed  to  distinct  writers  of  emi 
nonce,  and  fully  qualified  to  treat  of  them  with  distinguished  ability, 
and  the  result  has  been  the  production  of  a  body  of  accurate  arid 
complete  information,  such  as  is  not  to  be  found  collected  in  ai.t 
other  work  in  the  English,  or,  indeed,  in  any  language. 


LETTERS  ON  NATURAL  MAGIC.  By  Sir  DAVID 
BRKWHTKR,  LLD.,  F.R.S.  18mo.  With  numerous  Engra- 
viiig*. 

The  author  of  this  volume  passes  under  review  the  principal  phe 
nomena  of  nature,  and  tho  lending  contrivances  of  art  which  bear  the 
impress  of  a  Bupernatuial  character,  and  more  especially  those  sin 
gular  illusions  of  sense  in  which  the  most  perfect  organs  fail  to  per 
form  their  Junctions,  or  perform  them  unfaithfully.  These  are  themes 
full  of  interest,  and  worthy  of  the  labour  bestowed  upon  them  by  the 
philosophic  writer. 

The  eye  and  ear  are,  of  course,  the  chief  organs  of  deception,  and, 
accordingly,  optical  illusions  occupy  a  considerable  portion  of  the 
volume.  Those  depending  on  the  ear  succeed,  and,  alter  these  have 
been  described  and  explained,  we  arc  entertained  with  amusing 
accounts  of  teats  of  strength,  of  mechanical  automata,  and  of  some 
of  the  more  popular  wonders  of  chymistry.  Under  each  of  these  di 
visions  anecdotes  of  the  most  interesting  kind  illustrate  the  author's 
explanations,  anil  no  subject  in  itself  grave  and  important  was  ever 
treated  m  a  more  captivating  manner. 

HISTORY  OF  IRELAND.  By  VV.  C.  TAYLOR,  Esq. 
With  Additions.  By  WILLIAM  SAMPSON,  Esq.  In  2  vols. 
I8mo.  With  Plates. 

Before  its  rcmihheation,  this  work  was  submitted  for  examination 
to  several  gentlemen  resident  in  New-York,  natives,  or  the  descend 
ants  of  natives,  of  the  country  whose  history  it  contains,  and  distin 
guished  for  their  attachment  to  the  unhappy  land  to  which  they 
tr;i<  >•  thesr  origin,  and  lor  their  talents  and  acquirements.  Their 
opinion  was  unanimous,  and  highly  favourable,  and  each  of  them  ex- 
pn  sM-d  m  strong  tcims  the  plrnsuro  if  would  aflo;d  him  to  see 
republlshed  m  the  United  States  a  work  so  lair,  so  copious, 
and  so  accurate.  The  public  at  large  has  continued  their  sentence, 
and  stamped  this  history  with  tho  seal  of  approbation.  The  value 
of  the  history  as  originally  published  has  l>een  preatly  enhanced  by 
the  additions  of  William  Sampson,  Ksq.,  whose  reputation  is  too  well 
known  in  the  country  of  his  adoption  to  require  eulogy. 

HISTORICAL  VIEW  OF  THE  PROGRESS  OF  DIS 
COVERY  OX  THE  MORE  NORTHERN  COASTS  OF 
.NORTH  AMERICA.     By   P.  F.  TYTLER,  Esq.,  and  Prof. 
WILSON.     19mo.     With  a  Map  and  Engravings. 
Among  the  most  remarkable  occurrences  of  the  nineteenth  century 
are  the  various  expeditions  ol  discovery  to  the  northern  coasts  of  the 
western  continent,  so  important,  although  not  perfectly  satisfactory 
in  their  results.     In  no  other  portion  of  the  earth's  surface  has  the 
navigator  to  contend  wuh  such  formidable  difficulties,  and  in  none 
does  he  behold  so  peculiar  an  aspect  of  nature  :  it  follows,  therefore, 
of  course,  that  expeditions  to  no  other  part  of  the  world  furnish  to 
the  historian  such  ample  and  interesting  materials.    The  present 
volume  exhibits  a  full  and  accurate  view  of  all  that  is  important  in 
modem  knowledge  of  the  most  remote  territories  of  North  America, 
and  may  IKJ  considered  as  forminc  a  sequel  to  tho  "  Polar  Seas  and 
Regions,"  and  as  tarnishing  all  that  was  wanting  to  a  complete  ac- 
count  fit  the  wholo  series  ot  northern  discoveries  bv  land  :\nt\  water. 


BOLDT.     By  W.  MACOILLIVKAY.      18mo.     Engraving*. 

The  celebrity  enjoyed  by  Baron  Humboldt,  earned  by  a  life  of 
laborious  investigation  and  perilous  enterprise,  and  by  the  most  ex 
tensive  contributions  to  science,  renders  his  name  familiar  to  every 
person  whose  attention  has  been  dmwn  to  statistics  or  natural  phdo- 
sorhy ;  and  his  works  are  ranked  among  the  very  first  for  the  splen 
did  pictures  of  scenery  which  they  contain,  the  diversified  informa 
tion  which  they  afford  respect  inn;  objects  of  universal  interest,  an-1 
the  graceful  attractions  with  which  lie  has  invested  the  majesty  of 
science.  The  present  volume  contains  p-  'indeed  account  of  all 
the  travels  and  researches  of  this  eminent  observer  of  nature,  in 
which  nothing  is  omitted  that  can  *>o  either  interesting  or  useful  to 
the  gem.ial  reader,  while  the  several  narratives  are.  sufficiently  con 
densed  to  bring  them  within  the  compass  of  a  convenient  volume. 

LETTERS  OF  EULER  ON  NATURAL  PHILOSOPHY ; 
WITH  NOTES  AND  A  LITE  OF  EULER.  By  Mr 
DAVID  BRKWSTKK,  LL.I).,  F.K.S.  With  additional  Notes. 
By  J.  GKISCOM,  LL.D.  In  2  vols.  18mo.  With  Engraving*. 

Of  all  tho  treatises  on  Natural  Philosophy  that  have  l>een  pub. 
limbed  in  the  various  languages  of  Europe  mere  is  none  th.it  has  en 
joyed  a  more  extensive  and  permanent  celibritv  than  that  of  tho 
famous  mathematician  and  philosopher  Leonard  F.uU  r,  contained  in 
his  letters  to  the  Princess  of  Anhidt.  They  have  been  translated 
into  several  tongues,  and  edition  after  edition  has  been  published  m 
Europe  with  still  increasing  reputation.  The  most  eminent  sar>m* 
of  England  and  France  have  repeatedly  borne  testimony  to  their  ex 
cellence,  not  only  by  the  strongest  expressions  of  approbation,  but  by 
assuming  the  task  of  editing  the  \vork  :  the  latest  who  has  bestowed 
this  mark  of  commendation  was  .Sir  David  Hrewster,  from  whoso 
edition  this  now  published  was  printed.  The  notes  added  by  him 
are  copious  and  valuable ;  and  the  publishers  of  the  American 
edition,  still  more  to  enhance  the  merit  of  the  work,  have  secured 
the  assistance  of  Professor  Griscom,  whose  notes  will  be  found 
numerous  and  of  great  utility. 

A  POPULAR  GUIDE- TO  THE  OBSERVATION  OF 
NATURE.  By  ROBERT  MUDIE.  With  Engravings,  18mo. 

The  author  is  an  ardent  lover  of  nature,  and  a  close  observer  of  the 
works  of  the  Creator,  and  his  aim  has  been  to  awaken  in  his  readers  a 
spirit  kindred  to  his  own,  and  to  point  out  to  the  student  the  true 
path  of  inquiry  ;  that  winch  alone  can  lead  to  th«'  just  perception  and 
lull  enjouaelii  of  the  innumerable  charms  that  he  scattered  so 
lavishly  around  us  in  every  form  of  animate  and  inanimate  existence. 
In  the  accomplishment  of  his  undertaking  be  has  produml  a  work, 
not  more  remarkable,  for  Us  originality  and  lor  the  extent  and  accu 
racy  ol  the  information  it  conveys,  than  for  the  novelty  of  its  views, 
thi)  infinite  variety  and  wisdom  of  its  reflections,  and  the  singular 
interest  with  which  it  fills  the  mind  ol  the  delighted  reader.  To 
tho  tyro  this  guide  is  of  incalculable  value,  and  even  to  the  accom 
plished  bcholur,  it  recommends  it  >clf  by  the  now  and  Making  features 
with  winch  it  invests  tho  exhaustlcsa  subject  of  which  it  tieats. 


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sively  giving  birth.  Proudly  independent  of  the  Meet  in.!!  taste  of  the  day, 
they  boast  substantial  worth  winch  can  never  be  disregarded;  they  put 
forth  a  claim  to  |>criirinciii  estimation  The  Family  Cltissirat  Library  is 
a  noble  undertaking,  whit  h  'lie  name  of  the  editor  assures  us  will  bo  t  vc- 
cutcd  in  u  style  worthy  ol'ilie  great  originals.'* — M->rnmf  /''>.vf. 

"  This  is  a  very  promising  speculation  ;  and  us  the  taste  of  the  day  runs 
just  now  very  strongly  in  favour  of  such  Miscellanies,  we  doubt  not  it 
will  meet  \v u'h  pro|*>ruonatc  success.  It  rvcils  no  adventittouH  uid,  in.w. 
ever  influential ;  u  has  muse  siiiU,  trut  merit  to  enable  it  to  stand  on 
Its  own  lomid.Uion,  uinl  will  doulitless  assume  a  lolly  grade  in  public 
favour.*'—  .Si/  u. 

"This  worl:,  published  at  a  low  price,  is  beautifully  got  up.  Though 
»o  profess  to  be  content  with  translations  of  the  Classics  has  been  de 
nounced  as  'the  thin  disguise  of  indolence,'  there  art  thousands  who 
have  no  leisure  for  studying  t'te  dead  languages,  who  would  yet  like  to 
know  what  was  thought  and  said  by  the  sair.-s  and  poets  of  antiquity. 
To  their  Urn  work  will  be  a  treasure  " — Sunday  Time*. 

"This  design,  which  is  to  coinmunicaie  :i  knowledge  of  the  moat 
esteemed  authors  of  ti recce  and  Floine,  by  the  ui»st  approved  translations, 
to  those  from  whom  their  treasures,  without  sudi  assistance,  would  b« 
bidden,  must  surely  be  approved  by  every  friend  of  literature,  by  every 
lover  of  mankind.  We  nhall  only  say  of  lh>-  first  volume,  thai  a*  the 
execution  well  accords  with  the  design,  it  must  eo:mnand  general  appro 
bation."— TV  Olmeri'tr. 

"  We  &en  no  reason  why  this  work  nhouhl  not  find  its  way  into  th« 
boudoirof  the  laily,  as  well  as  into  the  library  of  i he  learned.  U  is  cheap, 
portable,  and  altogether  a  work  which  may  safely  be  placed  in  thu  hand* 
of  persons  of  both  scxus." — Wtekiy  fre*  t*rett. 


"A  plater  desideratum  to  the  English  reader  cannot  well  be  broufbl 
to  public  notice."—  Hell's  Weekly  Mrssenfcr. 

"The  Family  Classical  Library  may  be  reckoned  at  one  of  tho  moat 
Instructive  series  of  works  now  in  the  course  of  publication,*-  -Cam&nd^e 
Chronicle. 

"  A  series  of  works  under  the  title  of  the  Family  Classical  Library 
Is  low  in  the  course  of  publication,  which  will,  no  Joubt,  arrest  the  atten 
tion  of  all  the  admirer*  of  elegant  nnd  polite  literature—  of  that  literature 
which  forms  the  solid  and  indispensable  basis  of  a  sound  and  gentlemanly 
educHtion."-#ar/i  Herald. 

•  '  We  are  inclined  to  augnr  the  roost  beneficial  results  to  the  rising 
generation  from  ttie  plan  and  nature  of  this  publication  ;  and  we  doubt  not 
that  under  the  able  superintendence  of  Mr.  Vilpy,  the  value  of  the  present 
work  will  not  exceed  its  success  as  a  mere  literary  speculation.  It  ought 
to  find  a  place  in  every  school  and  private  family  in  the  kingdom.  *—Bri* 
tol  Journal. 

"  The  design  of  this  publication  Is  highly  laudable  :  If  It  be  patronised 
according  to  Us  deserts,  we  have  no  hesitation  in  saying  that  its  BUCCOM 
will  be  very  considerable."—  Edinburgh  Advertiser. 

"  If  we  had  hern  called  on  to  stale  what  in  our  opinion  was  wanted  to 
complete  the  scTeral  periodicals  now  in  course  of  publication,  we  should 
have  recommended  a  translation  of  the  most  approved  ancient  writers,  in 
a  corresponding  style.  This  undertaking,  therefore,  of  Mr.  Valpy's,  mo*t 
completely  meets  the  view  we  had  entertained  on  the  subject.  We 
strongly  recommend  the  production  to  the.  notice  of  schools,  as  Its  perusal 
must  tend  to  implant  on  the  minds  of  the  pupils  a  love  for  ancient  lore. 
In  LadiiV  Seminaries  the  series  will,  indeed,  be  invaluable  —  the  stores  of 
antiquity  being  thus  thrown  open  to  them,"  —  Plymouth  and  Devonport 
Herald. 

"  Economy  is  the  crdor  of  the  day  in  i>ooks.  The  Family  Classical  Li' 
brary  will  prcaily  ass  st  the  classical  labours  of  tutors  as  well  as  pupils. 
We  suspect  that  a  ptriod  is  arriving  when  the  Greek  and  Ijitin  author* 
will  be  more  generally  read  through  '.he  medium  of  translations."  —  Chel 
tenham.  Journal. 

"  We  avail  ourselves  ->f  the  earliest  opportunity  of  Introducing  to  the 
notice  of  our  readers  a  \\ork  which  appears  to  promise  the  utmost  advsn- 
tace  to  the  rising  gt  ncrati.m  in  particular.  There  is  no  class  of  people  to 
whom  it  i«  not  calculated  lobe  useful  —  to  the  scholar.it  will  be  an  agree 
able  guide  and  companion  ;  while  those  to  whom  a  classical  education 
hss  b«vn  denied  will  tl'id  in  it  a  pleasant  and  a  vah-able  avenue  towards 
those  ancient  models  ot  literary  greatness,  which,  even  in  Ihis  age  of 
boasted  refinement,  we  are  proud  to  imitate."  —  Aberdtcn  Chronicle. 

"The  Fa-nily  daxsiciil  Library  will  contain  the  maM  correct  and  ele 
gant  translations  of  the  immortal  works  of  all  the  great  authors  of  Greece 
and  Home  ;  an  acquaintance  with  whose  writings  is  indispensable  (o  every 
man  who  is  desirous  of  acquiring  oven  modern  classical  attainments  "- 
Liverpool  Aioinn. 

"  This  volume  promises  to  be  an  invaluable  acquisition  to  those  but 
partially  a  -quainted  with  the  Greek  and  Latin  languages:  such  of  the 
fair  sex  more  especially  as  direct  tVir  laudable  curiosity  in  the  channel 
of  classic  literature  must  mid  in  translation  the  very  key  to  the  knowledge 
they  seek.  The  mere  trifle  for  which  the  lover  c«"  l*'ci-jiture  may  now 
furnish  bis  library  with  an  elegant  and  un'form  edition  of  the  best  trane- 
lations  from  the  classics,  will,  it  cannot  be  doubted,  ensure  the  Family 
Librar 


ry  a  welcome  reception."—  Wootmer't  Lxtter  Gazette. 
u  Tbia  vork  will  supply  a  desideratum  in  literature  ;  and  we  hope  It 
will  meet  with  encouragement.  The  translations  of  many  of  the  ancient 
author*,  who  may  be  looked  on  as  the  great  storehouse  of  modern  liters' 
tore,  are  out  of  the  reach  of  the  English  reader  ;  and  this  publication  will 
itader  ibem  acoeevUe  to  «1L"—  Yorktktn  Gtutttt. 


LIBRARY  OF  SELECT  NOVELS. 


FJCTITIOPB  composition  la  now  admitted  to  form  an  txtenslve  and  la 
permit  ponion  of  literature.  Well-wrought  novela  take  thtir  rank  by  it* 
•life  of  real  narrative*,  and  are  appealed  to  u  evidanca  ui  all  queNiloitt 
concerning  man.  In  them  the  customa  of  couninea,  ihw  iransiiiona  and 
•hade*  of  character,  and  even  lh«  very  peeuharittM  oi  costume  and  a  a- 
lect,  are  cunounly  preserved  ;  and  Ihe'  imperishable  apirtl  that  *um>unda 
and  keejm  them  for  tbe  u*e  of  *ucc«<sivt  generation*  renders  the  rttnUr* 
fbr  ever  freah  and  green.  In  them  human  life  4*  laid  <!ow,i  an  on  a  map. 
TU«  strong  and  vivid  exhibition*  of  unsMitu  and  of  character  which  they 
fUrnmh.  acquire  and  maintain  Ihe  strongest  huld  u,*on  the  i-unosii) ,  and, 
It  may  bo  added,  the  ad'ecuou*  of  evur>  class  of  render* ;  for  not  only  a 
entertammttiit  in  all  the  various  mood*  of  tragedy  and  comedy  provided  in 
their  i  »*''*,  but  he.  who  read*  them  attentively  may  often  obtain,  wuhout 
the  tuiterness  and  danger  of  rx|irnriii-«,  that  kni<v\.f  l^e  ol  Inn  lellow- 
erraiurev  which  bui  tor  nuch  aid  could,  m  vh-i  major. t>  of  ca»tn,  h«  only 
•c^uirvd  at  a  period  Of  Ufa  (ou  late  to  turn  it  to  account. 

Thin  "  l.ihrars  o(  Bekvi  Novvl»"  will  t-mhrace  none  but  nurh  as  havo 
received  the  impreNN  of  gfti»-ral  appiobalion,  or  lmv«  he«n  written  by 
author*  ol>stablmh«>d  charncli-r ;  and  the  pulili.-.har*  h->jHj  to  receive  ouca 
encouragemenl  from  thu  pnMic  pdin>n.i.:u  nn  will  cuaMc  them  In  the 
oourtw  of  time  to  produce  a  tM.ru-H  ol  uurkn  of  uiiilorm  ;ip|»-iif nncr,  and 
including  mo«t  ul'lhe  n-all)  valualilc  novels  and  romances  u.;it  iiuvt-  tK-en 
or  hhnll  be  issued  from  ihe  m-uli-rn  C:i)(!i»:i  ai>J  \rnencnn  |-rr.-«i. 

There  is  warcvly  un>  ^u«^lion  conin-.-trd  vkiid  the  ntcredlM  of  literatura 
Which  has  hvt-n  morv!  tliorou^lil)  du»»  u«sr«l  ind  mvc^atralfd  tlmn  tint  of 
the  utilitv  or  evil  of  novel  rending.  In  .is  ftvour  muci  nav  f><'  and  haa 
been  Haul,  and  it  must  t>«-  adiiniu-d  tli.it  tlif  r» •a^oiimgn  o  hix»e  who  t>e- 
lieve  novelH  to  be  injurious,  or  nt  Iwisl  unt-U^.H,  are.  nol  wiu  i  force  and 
plausibility.  Yet,  U  Uic  ai-t«titic,iti.  tt^mnsi  novels  ar«  clvxse.  vanniii  d, 
11  will  be  liiund  thai  they  «ire  mort)  n|iji,u  uhlo  in  gem-ntl  to  ex.  <«ive  »n- 
dulyeHcu  m  the  ple:i>ur«:a  ulforded  t>)  (h<-  prru-..ii  ol  (t>-iitious  an.  iiiurm 
th:tn  to  the  works  llii  HIM  INCH  ;  mid  th:»l  the  r\,h  which  can  be  j»i>tly 
as-Tilntl  to  them  HDM*  almost  «*\clustvei>,  not  from  any  pecuhnr  noxiou* 
qualilivM  ihnl  '-un  be  fairly  tiliributed  lo  novels  a*  a  -IKX  :>••<,  but  Ihun  !!n^« 
Individual  worki  which  in  iheir  cUs«  mu.si  bo  pionounccJ  lo  bo  mdif- 
farent. 

But  even  were  U  oth.Twi-K- — were  novels  of  every  kind,  the  good  aa 
well  «a  the  bad,  the  atnkmg  and  animated  not  len.t  than  the  puerile,  in 
deed  liable  lo  the  charge  of  enfeebling  or  iKTvennig  the  mind  ;  and  wer« 
there  no  ijualilieb  in  any  which  mi^ln  render  I  hem  instructive  t*  well  aa 
ajnusmg — ihe  universal  accepialion  which  they  have  ever  received,  ar.d 
anil  conlinufl  to  receive,  from  all  axe*  and  t  ia->N<-»  of  men.  would  prove 
an  irresihtible  incentive  to  their  uro<luction.  The  remonstrances  of  morHi- 
btts  and  the  reasonings  of  philosophy  have  ever  been,  ind  will  still  b« 
found,  unavailing  agmn>i  the  desire  to  paruke  of  un  rnj<i>iiteni  /«o  attrac 
tive.  Men  will  read  novel*  ;  and  therrfoib  the  utmost  thai  wiadum  and 
philanthropy  ran  do  IH  to  cater  prudently  lor  the  public  appetite,  and,  »•  u 
U  hopeleH«  to  alien. jit  the  exclusion  of  nctitiouh  wnungn  Inttn  the  shelve* 
of  the  library,  lo  HO-  thai  they  are  encumbered  with  the  leeuft  po«Mibl* 
Dumber  of  Huch  aa  have  no  other  inent  than  llial  of  novntty. 

TE7  Sixtetn  works,  by  eminent  author*,  Ant?*  already  betn  pub- 
liihrd  in  the  "  library  of  Select  Nwell,"  which  are  ivld  tejtsi 
•r  in  cmtfleit  itli. — For  tht  titUt  ttv  tht  Fublutun'  catalog**. 


K7  The  following  works  are  printed  and  bound  uniformly,  and 
may  be  obtained  either  separately  or  in  complete  Be*?. 

YOUTH  AND  MANHOOD  OF  CYRIL  THORNTON. 

In  2  vols.   l-Jino. 

TUB  DUTCHMAN'S  FIRESIDE.    By  J.  K.  PAULDINO 
Esq.     In  2  vols.   12mo. 

THE   YOUNG   DUKE.     By  the  Author  of  "Vivian 
Grey."     In  2  vols.  12mo. 

CALEB  WILLIAMS.    By  the  Author  of  "  Cloudesley," 
&c.     In  2  vols.   l-Jnio. 

PHILIP  AUGUSTUS.     By  G.  P.  R.  JAMES,  Esq.     In 
2  vols.   12mo. 

THE  CLUB-BOOK.     By  several  popular  Authors.     rn 
2  vols.   12mo. 

I)E    VERE.      By  the   Author  of  "  Tremaine."     In  2 
vols.    12  mo. 

THE   SMUGGLER.     By  the   Author  of  " The  O'Hara 

Tales,"  &c.     In  2  vols.   12mo. 

EUGENE  ARAM.  By  the  Author  of  "  Pelham."  In 
2  vols.  12mo. 

EVELINA.     By  Miss  BURNEY.     In  2  vols.  12mo. 

THE  SPY:  A  Tale  of  the  Neutral  Ground.  By  the 
Author  of  "  Precaution/'  In  2  vols.  12mo. 

WESTWARD  HO!  By  the  Author  of  "The  Dutch 
man's  Fireside,"  &c.  In  2  vols.  12mo. 

TALES  OF  GLAUBER-SPA.  By  Miss  SEDGWICR. 
Messrs.  PAULDIKG,  BRYANT,  SANDS,  LKGOBTT,  &c.  In  2 
vols.  12mo. 

HENRY  MASTERTON.  By  G.  P.  R.  JAMKS,  Esq, 
Author  of  "  Philip  Augustus,"  &c.  In  2  vols.  12mo. 

MARY  OF  BURGUNDY;  Or,  the  Revolt  of  Ghent. 
By  the  Author  of  "  Philip  Augustus,"  "  Henry  Ma»- 
terton,"  &c.  In  2  vols.  12mo 


PUBLISHED  BY  J.  &  J.  HARPER,  82  CLUT-STEMT, 
NKW-YORK. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  MODERN  EUROPE,  from  the 

Rise  of  the  Modern  Kingdoms  to  the  ^resent  IVri'xI.  Hy  WILLIAM  KrsavLL, 
LL.l).,  and  WILLIAM  JUNKS,  Es<}  With  . \nnoianon8,  by  an  Amrnean.  In 
S  vols  8vo. 

THE  HISTORICAL  WORKS  OF  THE  REV.  WIL- 

LIAM  KOHK11TSON.  D.U.;  coiii|trismi!  ins  11(8  TORY  UK  AMRK1CA  ; 
CHARI.RS  V.;  SCOTLAND,  and  INDIA.  In  3  volv  cvo.  With  IMam. 

(SIMON'S    HISTORY   OF  THE   DECLINE   AND 

FAU,  OF  'Hit:  ROMAN  KMNKK.   in  4  voi«.  M-O.   wmiM^*  ana  rum 

ENGLISH  SYNONYMES,  with  copious  Illustrations 

and  Explanations,  drawn  I'rmn  llie  heal  Writers.  Uj  (J«.ORUS  CKABHK,  M.A 
6va  \ 

LIFE  OF  LORD  MYRON.     Uy  THOMAS  MOORE,  Esq. 

In  U  vols.  8vo.     VViiU  a  I'orirail. 

THE  HOOK  OF  NATFRE;   hein?  a  popular  Illus- 

trillion  of  Ha;  v-i  Mrr.tl  I.:t\vs  ami  IMionoiiK on  ol  «  reaiion,  «v.i-.  H>  J»n* 
MAMON  (iuop,  Ml)  und  IK  S.  >M  .  \Vnli  his  l.iic. 

HOOPER'S  MEDICAL  DICTIONARY.     From  the 

basl  London  Kdiliou.     Wall  AtlduioiiM,  by  SAM  TEL  AKCRI.Y,  M.D.     b»o. 

COOPER'S  SURCilCAL  DICTIONARY.     In  2  vote. 

New  and  inijuovrd  Edition,     bvo. 

GOOD'S  (Da.  JOHN  MASON)  STl'DY  OF  MEDICINE. 

In  5  vols.  Svo.     A  new  Ivlnion."    With  Addiiionn,  hy  SVMTICL  COOPKR. 

DOMESTIC    DUTIES;  or  Instructions   to   Married 

Ladie.s.     H\  Mrs.  PAKKLI.     TJiiK). 

WORKS    OF  THE    REV.    ROIJERT   HALL,   with 

MfinoirH  of  his  Lite,  by  (xukuoHv  and  FuMkit.  I'onipkio  cdiiiou.  la  3 
»ols.  BVO.  I'orir.nt. 

A  MEMOIR  OF  THE  LIFE  OF   WILLIAM  LIV- 

INdSTnN,  I.I..D.  Menitn-r  of  Con^rrss  m  ITTJ,  1775.  and  177(>;  Dflfpaie  t* 
llie  Ffdrril  Convention  in  17*7;  svntl  (iovernor  of  i  ho  Siut«-  of  New  Jersey 
from  1770  to  17'jy.  Uy  TIIILOIIOKK  SKKUWH  K,  Jr.  bvo.  1'urtruil. 

THE  LIFE  OF  JOHN  JAY,  with  Selections  from  his 

CorrCN|Mii)doilCQ and  Misfflluncoua  ra|H-r«.  Hy  In*  son  \V.vt.  JAV.  ln'2  vol». 
Ovu.  i'ortruiti 

THE  PERCY  ANECDOTES.    Revise*!  edition.    To 

which  IH  udd«>d,  u  Vulnalilc  Colloriioii  of  Aineni-un  Ant-cdoics,  original  ti.d 
n.kftfd.  I'onr.iiM.  >\i>, 

POLYNESIAN  RESEARCHES,  iluriuyr  a  Residence 

•f  l'i«hi  Y«ar«  in  iliu  SiKieiy  and  tSandwiclt  l^laiuU.  Uy  WILLIAM  KI.I.IB. 
lu  4  vols.  12ino.  Plates. 

THE   COMPLETE   WORKS  OF    MARIA    EDGE- 
WORTH.     In  tf  vols.     ISino.    With  Enjrravmjfn 

KEITH  ON  THE   EVIDENCE  OF  PROPHECY. 

From  tuo  la«t  Luudoo  Edition.    Hiu«x 


WORKS  PUBLISHED  BY  J.  &  J.  HARPER.      5 

THE  INVALID'S  ORACLE ;  OR,  ART  OF  INVIGO- 

RATINC    AM)    Pltni.OVilMi  LIFE.     Hy   WILLUM    KIUHINICR,  M.D 
Wild  Nou-i*  b>  a  Ph>sir;an  ol  New -York.     Ibmo. 

THE  COOK'S  ORACLE,  AM)  HOUSEKEEPER'S 

MAM  AL.      H)    WiiitAM    KMMII-^H.    M.I).      Adnplol   to  the   Atntrican 
Public  l>)  a  Mnln'al  (iptilleinnii  of  New- York.     l?mo. 

AN  ELEMENTARY  TREATISE  ON  MUCH  AN- 

|cs.    'Iriin-liii:  d  in. 111  i  IK-   h'n-nrh  of  M.  Uourharlit.     \\  \\\\  Addition*  and 
KIIICMI'HIIOIIH  h)  l'n.%  tun  II.  COI-KIKNAV.    Wvo.     Numerous  Plati-M. 

LIKE  OF  W1CLIF.    By  C.  W.  LE  BAS,  A.M.    18mo. 
THE    CONSISTENCY    OF    REVELATION    with 

il*eH  HIM!  with  Human  Reason.     Hy  P.  N.  f*iu  TTi,kWi»Ki  n.     IHino. 

Lt  THER    AM)   THE    LUTHERAN    REFORMA 
TION.     11}  Kev.  J.  S  OIT.    1n2volR.    PorirailH. 

HISTORY  OF   THE  REFORMED  RELIC.ION  IN 

FU\NTK.     By  Rev.  UhWAKH  SMKDI.KV.     In  3  voH.  IHino.    Portrnim. 

THE  COM  FORTE  R  ;  or,  Consolation  for  the  Afflicted. 

Uy  11  Villu^f  Pastor.     IV'HKV 

LETTERS   TO   THE    YOUNG.      By   MARIA   JAN* 

JKKMITKV.     Prom  the  third  Kilinon  revised  and  enlarged.     18r:io. 

BROWN'S  DICTIONARY  OF  THE  HOLY  BIBLE 

8vo      Only  ro:ni>!ttt  Ld.tion  publistud  in  thin  country.] 

BROWN'S  (.I.)  BIBLE  CONCORDANCE.     32mo. 
GIBSON'S  SURVEYING.     Improved  and  enlarged. 

Hy  .UM>-  K *  A-..     b\o. 

ELEMENTS  OF  SURVEYING.    \Vith  the  necessary 

Ti'.  -s  ami  I'l.iii-H.  Hy  Cn*i<i  >:«  IKviic*,  ProfcsNor  of  MutlieinHtim  at  lit* 
Milihiry  <••».  mi)  /it  \\  i ->i  Point.  Mvo. 

DESCRIPTIVE  (iEOMETRY   AND  SPHERICAL 

PKO.IIX  'I'lONS       li>  fn»Ki  »-  iKxit-.     Hvo. 

TREATISE  ON  SHADOWS  AND  PERSPECTIVE. 

Hy  CIIAMO-  I)»vus.     bvo. 

FOUR  VOYAGES  IN  THE  CHINESE  SEA,  AT- 

LAN  Tit  .  PA<  1FH1,  INDIAN,  AND  ANTARCTIC  OCEANS  Together 
v»u!ia  Hiogrm.hu  al  skftc^  of  the  Author.  Hy  »  apt.  HLNJAMIN  MORKKLL,  Jr. 
b^'o  With  Purl  rail. 

NARRATIVE  OF  A  VOYAGE  TO  THE  ETHIOPIC 

AND  HOITM  ATLANTIC  u<  KAN.  INDIAN  OCEAN,  CHINESE  t<EA, 
AND  NOKTII  AND  SOITH  PACIFIC  OCEAN.  Uy  ABBY  JAMC  MIIKRKLL. 
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BOY'S  AND   GIRL'S   LIBRARY. 


PROSPECTUS. 

THE  publishers  of  the  "Boy's  AND  GIRL'S  LI 
BRARY"  propose,  under  this  title,  to  issue  a  series 
of  cheap   but  attractive    volumes,   designed    espe 
cially  for  the  young.      The  undertaking  originates 
not  in  the   impression  that  there  does  not  already 
exist  in  the  treasures  of  the   reading  world  a  large 
provision  for  thi*  class  of  the  community.      They  are 
fully  aware  of  the  deep  interest  excited  at  the  present 
day  on  the  subject  of  the  mental  and  moral  training 
of  the  young,  and  of  the  amount  of  talent  and  labour 
bestowed    upon   the    production   of  works  aiming 
both  at  the  solid  culture  and  the  innocent  entertain 
ment  of  the  inquisitive  minds  of  children.      They 
would  not  therefore  have  their  projected  enterprise 
construed  into  an  implication  of  the  slightest  dis 
paragement  of  the  merits  of  their  predecessors  in  th< 
same  department      Indeed  it  is  to  the  fact  of  the 
growing  abundance  rather  than  to  the  scarcity  o» 
useful  productions  of  tins  description  that  the  de 
sign  of  the  present  work  is  to  be  traced ;  as  they 
are  desirous  of  creating  a  channel  through  which 
the  products  of  the  many  able  pens  enlisted  in  the 


PROSPECTUS. 

aervice  of  the  young  may  be  advantageously  con 
veyed  to  the  public. 

The  contemplated  course  of  publications  will 
more  especially  embrace  such  works  as  are  adapt 
ed,  not  to  the  extremes  of  early  childhood  or  of 
advanced  youth,  but  to  that  intermediate  space 
which  lies  between  childhood  and  the  opening  of 
maturity,  when  the  trifles  of  the  nursery  and  the 
simple  lessons  of  the  school-room  have  ceased  to 
exercise  their  beneficial  influence,  but  before  the 
taste  for  a  higher  order  of  mental  pleasure  has  es 
tablished  a  fixed  ascendency  in  their  stead.  In  the 
selection  of  works  intended  for  the  rising  genera 
tion  in  this  plastic  period  of  their  existence,  when 
the  elements  of  future  character  are  receiving  their 
moulding  impress,  the  publishers  pledge  themselves 
that  the  utmost  care  and  scrupulosity  shall  be  exer 
cised.  They  are  fixed  in  their  determination  that 
nothing  of  a  questionable  tendency  on  the  score  of 
sentiment  shall  find  admission  into  pages  conse 
crated  to  the  holy  purpose  of  instructing  the  thoughts, 
regulating  the  passions,  and  settling  the  principles 
of  the  young. 

In  fine,  the  publishers  of  the  "Boy's  and  Girl'* 
library"  would  assure  the  public  that  nn  adequate 
patronage  alone  is  wanting  to  induce  and  enable 
them  to  secure  the  services  of  the  most  gifted  pens 
in  our  country  in  the  proposed  publication,  and  thus 
to  render  it  altogether  worthy  of  the  iige  and  the 
object  which  call  it  forth,  and  of  the  countenance 
which  they  solicit  for  it. 


DOTS  AND  GIRL'S  LIBRARY. 


Number*  already  Published.— Each  Work  can  It  had 
separately. 


LIVES  or  TIT«  APOSTLES  AKD  EARLY  MAR 
TYRS  or  THB  CHURCH.  18mo.  [No.  I.  of  the  Boy'» 
and  GirP*  Library.  Designed  for  Sunday  Rending.] 
This,  a*  well  a*  some  of  the  subsequent  numbers  of  the  Boy'i 
and  Girl'*  Library,  is  especially  designed  for  Sunday  reading, 
and  the  object  of  the  writer  has  been  to  direct  the  minds  of 
youthful  renders  to  the  Bible,  by  exciting  an  interest  in  the  live* 
and  actions  of  thn  eminent  apostles  and  martyrs  who  bore  testi 
mony  to  the  truth  of  their  missions  and  of  the  Redeemer  by 
their  preaching  and  their  righteous  death.  Tho  rlylo  is  beauti 
fully  simple,  and  tho  narrative  is  intersperncd  with  comment* 
and  reflection*  romirka'jio  for  tbe>r  devout  spirit,  and  for  the 
clearness  with  which  thf  y  elucidate  whatever  might  appear  to 
tho  tender  mind  either  contradictory  or  unintelligible.  It  i» 
Impossible  for  any  child  to  read  these  affecting  histories  without 
becoming  interested ;  and  tho  interest  is  so  directed  and  im 
proved  M  to  implant  and  foster  the  purest  principle*  of  religion 
and  morality.  The  most  esteemed  religious  publication* 
throughout  the  Union  hare  united  in  cordial  expressions  of 
praise  to  this  a*  well  as  the  other  Scriptural  numbers  of  tht) 
Library,  and  tho  publisher*  hare  had  the  gratification  of  re 
ceiving  from  individual*  eminent  for  pi*ty,  the  warmest  con*' 
mend*  ti  on*  not  only  of  the  plan,  but  al*o  of  th*  wanner  ha 
which  it  ha*  boao  *o  far  axocutad. 


JUVENILE    WORKS. 

THE  SWISS  FAMILY  ROBINSON;  on,  ADVEN 
TURES  or  A  FATHER  AND  MOTHER  AND  FOUR 
SONS  ON  A  DESERT  ISLAND.  In  2  TO!*.  18mo. 
[No«.  II.  &  III.  of  the  Boy's  and  Girl'*  Library.] 
The  purpose  of  this  pleasing  story  is  to  convey  instruction  In 
the  arts  and  Natural  History,  end,  at  the  same  time,  to  inculcate 
by  example  principles  which  tend  to  the  promotion  of  social 
happiness.  Every  on^  has  read  or  heard  of  Robinson  Crusoe, 
and  the  unrivalled  and  lonpr  continued  popu'aiity  of  that  admi 
rable  narrative,  proves  that  the  tastes  and  feelings  to  which  it 
addresses  itself  are  among  the  strongest  and  most  universal 
which  belong  to  human  nature.  The  adventures  of  the  Swiss 
family  are  somewhat  similar  in  character,  and,  of  course,  in  in 
terest;  and  they  illustrate,  in  the  most  forcible  and  pleasing 
manner,  the  efficacy  of  piety,  industry,  ingenuity,  and  good- 
temper,  in  smoothing  diflicuities  and  procuring  enjoyments 
under  the  most  adverse  circumstances.  The  story  abounds 
with  instruction  and  entertainment,  and  well  deserves  the  high 
encomium  that  has  been  passed  upon  it,  of  being  one  of  the 
best  children's  books  ever  written. 

"This  little  work  is  so  much  of  a  story,  that  it  will  seem  a 
relaxation  rather  than  a  school-task,  and  at  the  same  time  it 
will  give  the  juvenile  reader  more  practical  instruction  in 
natural  history,  economy,  and  thr  means  of  contriving  and  helping 
one'*  tflf,  than  many  books  of  the  very  best  pretensions  in  the 
department  of  instruction." — Boston  Daily  Advocate. 

"  We  do  not  think  a  parent  could  select  a  more  acceptable  or 
judicious  gift." — New-Haven  Keiigitnu  Intelligencer. 

**  The  story  has  all  that  wild  charm  of  adventure  and  dis 
covery  which  has  made  Robinson  Crusoe  such  a  wonder  to 
every  generation  since  it  was  written." — Baptist  Rrjwsitory. 
"  This  work  is  interesting  stud  truly  \a!uable." — U.  6\  Gaistt*. 
•'Well  calculated  to  claim  the  attention  of  the  interesting 
part  of   the  community   to  winch  it  is  addressed." — A'.    Y 
Adroeot*, 


/UVJZNIL*    WORKS. 

SUNDAY  EVENINGS ;    OR,  AN  EASY  INTRO- 

DIJCTION  TO  TJIIC  READING  or  TUB  BIBLE.    [Noi. 

IV.  and  XIV.  of  the  Boy's  and  Girl's  Library.] 

The  title  of  this  excellent  little  work  sufficiently  explain* 
its  object.  As  an  introduction  to  the  knowledge  of  Scripture 
History,  and  an  incentive  to  the  ntudy  of  the  Sacred  Volume, 
it  is  calculated  to  produce  the  most  happy  effects  upon  the 
mi ud n  of  children ;  mid  th  >  simplicity  of  thn  language  pre 
serves  to  the  story  nil  thoso  charms  which  are  inherent  in  the 
narrative,  but  r.n1  sometimes  lost  to  very  youthful  readers  by 
their  want  of  a  perfect  understanding  of  tho  words  they  read. 
Besides  a  developed  and  connected  view,  in  easy  language, 
of  the  Script  :re  story  itself,  the  author  has  endeavoured  to  in- 
tersperso  in  the  narrative  s\;ch  notices  of  the  countries  spoken 
of,  together  \vith  such  references  to  the  New  Testament  and 
practical  remarks,  as  would  tend  to  make  the  book  cither  more 
interesting,  more  intellectually  improving,  or  more  valuable  in 
a  moral  and  religious  light:  and  it  cannot  fail  of  obtaining  the 
approbation  of  all  judicious  and  pious  parents,  and  of  proving, 
by  the  blessing  of  God,  an  assistance  to  the  Christian  mother, 
in  giving  to  her  children  an  early  knowledge  and  love  of  his 
Sacred  Word. 

"The  style  is  simple,  the  sentiments  expressed  Scriptural, 
and  the  l>ook  every  way  Calculated  cs  an  assistant  in  the  in 
struct  ion  of  children. —  The  Prrsliytrrian. 

"To  be  commended  cordially." — The  Churchman. 

"We  recommend  it  particularly  to  mothers  and  guardians 
of  the  young,  confident  that  it  will  obtain  their  approbation,  and 
prove  an  assistance  to  them  in  giving  those  under  their  care  an 
ea'ly  knowledge  and  love  of  the  Sacred  Word." — Am.  Traveller 

"  The  work  is  well  worthy  the  attention  of  parents  and  in- 
•trartera,  to  whom  we  most  cheerfully  recommend  it."—  Bottom 
Mirror. 

"  It  will  be  found,  we  think,  a  useful  auxiliary  in  the  hands 
•f  patents,  and  •  moct  winning  book  to  children.' 


i  JUTENILK   WOUKB. 

THE   SON  or  A    GENIUS.     BY  MM.  Hominx 

[No.  V.  of  the  Boy's  and  Girl'*  Library.] 

Thin  admirable  story  baa  been  too  long  familiar  to  the  pub 
lic—at  least  to  that  portion  of  it  which  haa  advanced  beyond 
the  period  of  childhood— to  require  either  eulogy  or  description. 
It  has'for  many  years  maintained  its  place  among  the  best  and 
most  esteemed  juvenile  works  in  the  English  language ;  and  ks 
popularity  is  easily  accounted  for  by  the  touching  interest  of  the 
incidents,  and  the  purity  of  the  principles  it  inculcates  both 
of  wisdom  and  religion.  The  publishers  were  induced  to  re 
print  it  as  one  of  the  numbers  of  the  Boy's  and  Girl's  Library, 
partly  by  the  advice  and  solicitations  of  many  of  their  friends, 
and  their  own  knowledge  of  its  merits,  and  partly  by  the  con 
sideration  that  it  has  long  been  out  of  pnnt,  and  that  it  waa  very 
difficult  to  procure  a  copy. 

"  'The  Son  of  a  Genius'  will  afford  a  profitable  study  to 
paron's,  as  well  as  an  exquisite  treat  to  youths.  It  is  an  admi 
rable  tale  :  fascinating  in  its  delineations,  admirable  in  it«>  moral, 
just  as  a  picture  of  the  mind,  a  faitliful  and  Vue  portraiture 
of  the  results  of  genius  vaccilatmg,  unapplied,  and  turning  to 
ruin,  and  the  same  genius  supported  by  sound  moral  principle, 
strengthened  by  judicious  exercise  and  continuous  eftort,  useful 
and  triumphant.  It  is  a  striking  illustration  of  the  importance 
of  method,  perseverance,  and  industry  to  produce  the  perfect 
fruits  of  genius;  and  the  utter  uselessuess  of  delicate  taste, 
vivid  conception,  rapid  performance,  aided  by  generous  afTec 
tions  and  engaging  manner,  to  the  attainment  of  excellence, 
without  that  tteady  application,  which  nothing  but  just  moral 
principle  can  ensure.  The  story  is  not,  however,  a  refined,  met 
aphysical  disquisition  on  genius ;  but  a  simple,  engaging  tale, 
which  lets  in  upon  the  reader  a  soil  experience  worth  a  hun 
dred  essays." — Connecticut  Journal. 

"To  youth  of  both  sexes  this  work  forms  an  exrollent  piece 
Of  reading." — The  Pennsylranian. 

'•To  our  young  friends  U  will  afford  much  entertainment"* 
tiotton,  J/i/ror. 


JUVENILE   WORK*. 

NATURAL  HISTORY;  OR  UNCLE  PHILIP'S 
CONVERSATION'S  WITH  THK  CHILDREN  ABOUT 
TOOLS  AND  TRADES  AMONG  THB  INFERIOR 
ANIMALS.  [No  VI.  of  the  Boy's  and  Girl's  Library.] 
The  wonders  of  God's  providence,  as  they  ore  manifested 
in  the  figures,  habits,  and  performances  of  the  various  creatures 
which  fill  the  earth,  the  air,  and  the  waters, — the  endless  varieties 
of  form,  the  accuracy  and  ingenuity  of  their  contrivances, 
whether  for  security  or  sustenance,  and  the  admirable  adapta 
tion  of  their  instruments  to  the  works  their  instinct  prompts 
thnm  to  construct,  supply  an  exhaustless  theme  for  observation 
and  astonishment,  and  call  forth  in  the  mind  the  most  exalted 
ideas  of  the  Supreme  wisdom  and  beneticence.  In  the  capti- 
7it ting  volume  which  forms  the  sixth  number  of  the  Boy's  and 
Girl's  Library,  a  portion  of  this  department  of  science  is  treated 
of  with  consummate  ability,  and  the  work  has  deservedly  re 
ceived  the  highest  encomiums,  not  only  for  the  extent,  utility, 
and  interesting  nature  of  the  information  it  conveys,  but  also  for 
the  skill  with  which  the  ideas  and  language  are  adapted  to  tho 
tastes  as  well  as  the  capacities  of  youthful  readers.  But  these 
aze  not  its  only  or  Us  greatest  merits:  its  highest  claims  to 
praise  are  the  tone  of  sincere  and  earnest  piety  which  pervades 
the  conversations,  and  the  excellence  of  the  precepts  drawn 
from  the  wonders  they  disclose. 

"  It  is  written  with  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the  subject,  and 
with  that  delightful  freshness  of  impression  from  natural  sights 
which  revives  tho  days  of  our  childhood.  Here,  then,  is  a 
beautiful  and  appropriate  present  for  the  Christian  parent."— 
The  Presbyterian. 

•'This  work  deserves  high  praise.  It  displayi  much  tact 
and  ingenuity,  guided  by  sound  judgment,  and  controlled  by 
fervent  piety.  Such  books  for  the  young  are  scarce,  and  likely 
to  bn  so ;  for  few  are  able  to  pnxlr.ro  them.  Children  will  de 
light  in  it,  arxl  prof  t  by  it."—  The  Churchman. 

**  We  look  upon  this  as  one  among  the  best  juvenile  work* 
w»  bar*  met  with."— Boptut  Ripontery. 


womzs. 

INDIAN  TRAITS;  BKINO  SKETCHES  or  m 
MANNERS,  CUSTOMS,  AND  CHARACTER  or 
THB  NORTH  AMERICAN  NATIVES.  BT  B.  B. 
THATCHER,  ESQ.  [Nos.  VII.  and  VIII.  of  the  Boy'e 
•nd  Girl'  a  Library.] 

The  appearance,  character,  and  habits  of  the  North  American 
Inc.ians  have  Ion?  been  a  favourite  and  fortile  theme  for  wnt«ra 
as  -Bellas  readers,  and  accurate  descriptions  of  them  are  t^ualiy 
instructive  and  agreeanle.  These  form  the  subject  of  the 
eeventh  and  eighth  numbers  of  the  Library,  and  they  are  td- 
mitted  to  contain  mu<  h  correct  and  interesting  information.  A 
larger  work  (in  the  Family  Library)*  by  the  same  author,  -:n 
titled  "Indian  Biography,"  treats  of  tho  history  of  thone  re 
markable  members  of  the  human  family  :  the  work  now  under 
consideration  makes  no  pretensions  to  that  character,  but  is  en 
tirely  descriptive;  and  it  is  entitled  to  high,  praise,  not  only  aa 
being  the  first  attempt  to  render  the  subject  attractive  to 
youtliful  readers,  but  also  for  the  ability  with  which  the  object 
ia  accomplished, 

"These  two  little  volumes  furnish  the  lending  traits  of  Indian 
character  in  a  style  adapted  to  instruct  while  it  interest*  the 
youtliful  reader."  —  N.  1".  Atntrica*. 

"  Most  entertaining  and  excellent  volurr.ee."  —  X,  y.  WuJdy 


"Tho  author  has  produced  a  work  which  will  not  onlr  be 
T&luable  to  the  young,  but  to  all  who  wish  for  a  concise  and 
just  delineation  of  what  is  most  desirable  to  be  known  respect 
ing  the  character  aud  customs  of  the  natives  of  North  Aaienca,** 
"-Boston  Traveller. 

"The  Antiiago  ia  easy  and  fivmiliar,  and  the  deecriptioae 
quite  interesting."  —  Atkintcn't  Evening  Pott. 

"  Two  volumes  more  interesting  or  more  useful  were  n*v«t 
placed  in  the  handa  of  American  youth."  —  Jlottun  Jl/trryr. 

M  These  little  volumes  equal  in  interest  all  that  have  gone 
before  '.Ueiti  in  the  sarn*  family."  —  7V  /y 


JTTENILB    WORKS. 

TALES  FBOM  AMERICAN  HISTORY.    [Nos.  IX 
X.  and  XL  of  the  Boy's  and  Girl's  Library.] 

The  writer  of  these  Tales  hps  had  .n  riew  two  chief  pur 
poses, — the  one  to  convey  to  the  juvenile  reader  a  general  idea 
of  the  incidents  connected  with  the  discovery  and  subsequent 
history  of  the  American  continent ;  the  other  to  ezcito  an  in 
terest  in  the  subject  which  shall  create  a  desire  for  more  minute 
and  extensive  information.  These  purposes  have  been  effected 
with  much  success,  and  the  volumes  will  be  found  instructive 
and  entertaining  In  the  majority  of  instances,  the  Tales  have 
been  selected  with  reference  to  the  illustration  of  some  moral 
principle;  and  tne  frequent  opportunities  afforded  for  the  intro 
duction  of  reflections  leading  to  the  cultivation  of  piety  and  re 
ligion  have  been  ably  and  zealously  improved.  As  a  school- 
book  this  collection  of  Historical  Tales  is  calculated  to  be  emi 
nently  serviceable  ;  and  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  their  intro 
duction  into  seminaries  will  be  attended  with  both  pleasure  and 
advantage  to  the  scholars. 

"  It  is  sufficient  praise  for  this  work  to  say  that  it  is  by  the 
author  of '  American  Popular  Lessons,'  of  whose  powers  of  pre 
senting  knowledge  to  the  young  mind  in  a  graceful  and  attract 
ive  garb  the  public  are  not  now  to  be  informed." — N.  Y.  Evening 
Pott. 

"  A  collection  which  is  really  deserving  of  its  title.  We  have 
looked  over  these  Tales  with  great  pleasure,  and  find  them  full 
of  interest  and  instruction." — N.  I".  Adweate. 

"  One  of  the  best  works  that  can  be  put  into  the  hands  of  our 
youth.  ...  It  presents  all  the  circumstances  respecting  the  dis 
covery  of  this  country,  in  a  condensed  form,  clothtd  in  language 
calculated  to  interest  the  young.  It  ought  to  be  in  the  hands 
of  every  youth ;  and  it  cannot  be  too  early  or  too  extensively  in 
troduced  into  our  schools." — The  Cabinet  of  Religion. 

•The  stories  are  highly  interesting,  and  abound  with  pleasing 
illustrations  and  notices  of  the  history,  original  inhabitants,  pro- 
ductions,  and  first  settlert  of  our  own  portion  of  the  globe."— 
COUTMT  «*d  Ewpur*. 


UlTBXlBSTUfO   BOOKS   FOR   YOUNG   PERSON 

ROXOBEL.  By  Mrs.  SHERWOOD,  Author  of 
«  The  Lady  of  the  Manor,"  &c.  In  3  vols. 
18mo.  With  engravings. 

«« — An  interesting  story It  is  in  Mr».  ShenrocxTa 

happiest  manner,  and  though  intended  for  the  instruction 
ana  amusement  of  the  youusj,  will  rivet  the  attention  of 
readers  of  un\  hinted  tasto  of  every  n?e.  ^  e  recommend 
it  as  an  excellent  and  instructive  book."-— N.  Y.  American. 

"There  it  not  a  pag«  or  a  line  in  this  work  that  t;>e  pure 
and  virtuous  may  not  read  with  pleasure." — Am.  Traveller. 

**  A  vein  of'strict  morality  runs  through  her  writings,  and 
all  her  sentiments  upon  the  incidents  which  she  chooocs 
for  subjects  are  calculated  to  draw  forth  the  finest  and  most 
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NATURAL  HISTORY  OP  INSECTS. 

Illustrated  by  numerous  engravings.    ISmo. 

**  Of  all  studies,  perhaps,  there  is  none  more  captivating 

than  that  of  animated  nature The  present  volume  is 

peculiarly  useful  and  agrecnble." — N.  Y.  Mirror. 

"The  subject  is  full  of  interest  cnJ  sail-faction,  and  is 
adapted  la  all  classes  of  re  a  'ers." — J^  .  ^tinirtg  Jtntrnal, 

"  It  is  the  duty  of  every  person  having  a  family  to  put  thi* 
excellent  work  into  the  hands  of  his  children." — Mer.  „•?<//>. 

"It  seems  tons  that  it  will  prove  at  onct  agreeable  and 
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TIVE  OF  ins  SHIPWRECK,  <fcc.  Ed^ 
ited  by  ISliss  JANE  PORTI:R.  3  vois.  12mo. 

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bear  reading  again  and  again." — Cuiiiinf.rcial  Advertiser. 

"  It  is  a  narrative  of  croat  interest,  told  in  a  plain,  un- 
gtvlo,  in  a  rt'ligioiiK  uuJ  luoru!  tone." — tita 


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THIi  PUBLICATION  WILL   RE  COMPRISKD  IJ»  A  LIMITKP  NUMBEE  OF 

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K'  ri.LMAITl  K  AL  K.NOWLCOOK. 

THE    LIFE    OF   W  I  C  L  I  P. 

BY   CHART.KSi   \vr.im   LE    BAR,  M  \. 

Professor  IQ  the  Last  India  Collcg*,  Herts  ;  and  late  Fellow  of  Tnoitjr 
College,  Caintindge. 


THE  CONSISTENCY  OF  THE  WHOLE  SCHEME  OF  REVELA- 

TION  WITH  ITSELF.  AND  WITH  IH'MAN  REASON. 

Itv  T.  N.  SniiTf  K\voKni,  D.I). 

Warden  ui  iNcw  College,  Oxford. 

I U THE  11   AND    THE    1,1  Tin.  11  AN    REFORMATION 
ily  UCT.  J.  SUM  T.    In  9  voti.    1'i.rtraJia. 


YOLVMES    IN    PREPARATION. 

HISTORY    OF  THE    INQUISITION 

Br  JoimrH  BLANCO  WJUTK,  M.A. 
Of  liie  University  of  Oxford. 

HISTORY   OF   THE    PRINCIPAL   COUNCILS. 

BY  J.  II.  NEWMAN,  M.A. 
Feilow  of  On«l  College,  Oxford. 


THEOLOGICAL  LIBRARY 
THE  LIVES  OF  THE  CONTINENTAL  REFORMER!*. 

Ho.  I.   LIFE  OF  MARTIN  LUTHER. 

BY  Hi  on  JAMI>  RO-IC,  D.D. 
Christian  Advocate  in  the  University  of  Cambridge. 

THE  LATER  DAYS   OF  THE  JEWISH   POLITY: 

With  a  copious  Introduction  and  Note*  (chiefly  derived  from  the  Tsi- 

inudiMH  and  Rabbinical  WMUT*).     U'tili  a  view  to  illustrate 

the  Language,  the  Mariners,  and  iteiieral  History 

01  the  Ntw  Tn»TAMiLM. 

BY  THOMAS  MITCHEI  L,  E«Q.  A.M. 

Late  Fellow  of  Sidney  Sussex  College,  Cambridge. 

HISTORY   OF  THE  vJHURCH  IN  IRELAND. 

BY  C.  R.  Et.iNciTON,  D.D. 
Regius  Professor  of  Divinity  in  the  University  of  Dublin. 

THE  DIVINE  ORIGIN  OF  THE  CHRISTIAN  REVELATION 

demonntrated  in  an  analytical  Inquiry  into  the  Evidence  on  which  ih« 

Belief  of  Chrutiaiut)  lias  bet-n  cstabh&lied. 

Bv  \VH.MAM  RUXVE  I.YAI.I,  M.A. 
Archdeacon  of  Colchester,  and  Rector  of  FturMcad  und  Wwley  in  Essex. 

HISTORY  OF  THE  REFORMED  RELIGION  IN  FRANCE. 

BY  EitWAKD  SMKI>I  ».v,  MA. 
La>  Fellow  of  Sidney  Sussex  Col'oge,  Cambridge. 

ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  EASTERN  MANNERS,  SC  RIPTURAL 

PHRASEOLOGY,  Ac. 

Bv  SAMt'Ki  LKK,  B.D.  F.R.S.  M.R.A.S. 

Regius  Profusbor  of  Hebrew  in  tue  I  inversiiy  of  Cambridge. 

HISTORY    OF    SECTS. 

BY  F.  E.  THOMPSON,  M.A. 
Perpetual  Curate  of  Brentford. 

SKETCH    OF   THE    HISTORY    OF    LITURGIES: 
comprising  a  Particular  Account  of  ilie  LITIROY  of  the  CHURCH  of 

ENGLAND. 

BY  HKNRV  JOHN  jintiK,  B.D. 
Fellow  of  St.  John's  College,  Cambridge. 

HISTORY    OF   THE    CHURCH    IN    SCOTLAND 

I»Y  MUUAKI.  RrsKKt.1.,  I.L.D. 
Author  of  the  "  Connexion  of  Sacred  and  Profane  History .• 

THE    LIFE   OF    GROTIU8. 

BY  JAMES  Niciio'.s,  F.S.A. 
Author  of  "  Ariniiuaiusm  and  Caivuusu)  compared. 


14   IJAI 
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